


Hands of Steel

by Madd4the24



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Adultery, Age Difference, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Chocobos, Class Differences, Drama, First Generation Chocobros, First Kiss, Friendship, Getting Together, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Politics, Romance, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9640811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madd4the24/pseuds/Madd4the24
Summary: The Amicitia line is that which guides the monarchy with hands of steel. Forever there, forever strong, and forever burdened. Both an honor and a lifelong undertaking.This is something Regis knows to be inherently true, something that he finds himself capable of handling, and is prepared for.At least until Clarus Amicitia sweeps into his life, into his mind, and into his heart.Then the Amacitia line becomes something much more.(Or rather a character study of Regis as a prince, growing up, going on adventures with the first generation chocobros, and falling in love with Clarus.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was born from my odd fascination of supporting characters in major stories. I truly do have a love affair with the idea of flushing out characters who don't get a major focus, and from the start I've been particularly interested in what Regis was like as a young man, and the relationships I imagined him to have with Clarus, Cid, Weskham, and Cor. 
> 
> I definitely did a lot of research for this story. I combed through the FFXV wiki and fact checked myself over and over again. I tried to keep this story as canon compliant as possible, and I think I succeeded for the most part. However there may be a couple of discrepancies and slight changes made out of necessity. Still, I stuck to the timeline as best I could, made no major changes, and I hope it shows how much time and effort was put in to keeping this story on the straight and narrow.
> 
> I'm pretty much an author who's a sucker for good character development and examination, so if you're into that, this story is for you. I think Regis is very interesting as a character, and I hope I did him justice in this story. Please read on!

The Amicitia line is that which guides the monarchy with hands of steel. Forever there, forever strong, and forever burdened. Both an honor and a lifelong undertaking.

Regis knows this about the Amicitia line almost as well as he knows the truth of his own. It is engrained in him with his letters and numbers, when he is barely old enough to have escaped daily naps. The Amicitia line, his father presses into his mind, sandwiched between history lessons and etiquette classes, are the King’s Shield. They stand between the King and all threats to the throne, just as the King stands between the people and any threats to their lively hood. 

Regis is only a handful of years old when he begins to comprehend the depth of these statements, eyes too keen on his father, the great hundred and twelfth king of Lucius, Astra Amicitia, his sworn Shield. 

King and Shield.

At night, once, Regis is restless. He’s but seven, and the implication of this is that he’s old enough to understand he too, will be king one day. And yet not old enough to know which of Astra and Andarus’s three sons will be his Shield. Maybe there is still debate. Regardless, Regis slides himself out of bed, slips too easily past the guard stationed at his door flirting harmlessly with one of the Citadel staff, and treks off towards his father’s study. It’s nearly pointless to seek him out anywhere else. His father is a notorious insomniac.

It’s the crystal. 

Regis stares at it sometimes, when his father allows him to look upon it. It’s the crystal that takes his father’s strength by merely existing. And it does much worse when used. Regis will bear the burden of it one day. Regis will know the strain soon enough. On day, Regis will hold up the wall.

Regis is slight and thin, still boyish in nearly every aspect of himself, and when he presses himself to it, he knows how to avoid being seen. Even his father’s guards, the crownsguard elite, are oblivious to him. Like a shadow sliding across the floor, Regis pads his way into his father’s mammoth study.

This is the night he learns what King and Shield truly means.

This is the night he hears his beautiful, kind, generous mother, whisper to his father, “Go to her if you must. Go and be at peace, my husband.”

Regis’s parents are silhouetted in the moonlight where they stand, next to the big window that Astra often complains of as nothing but a safety hazard. 

Regis’s mother, a great queen to match the glory of the Lucian king, is breathtakingly beautiful. All of the men in the royal line of Caelum reek of darkness. It’s the irony of the line, if nothing else. Dark hair and burden mark them one and all, and though Regis’s father has long started to go gray, there are plenty of portraits and pictures to prove that he too, once carried the dark features Regis does. But Regis’s mother? Hailing from Altissia she is the embodiment of the sun. Blond hair, fair geen eyes, and a paleness that is singularly what Regis shares with her appearance wise, she is the opposite of the royal line of kings. 

And in the moonlight, her hair looks more silver than blond. Her eyes practically glow. And Regis foolishly thinks for one moment that she is an angel. A deity. She is surely one of the gods of old. 

Then again his mother speaks, too much kindness in her voice, and says, “I see you suffer, see you push yourself to torment—agony, and it breaks my heart.”

Regis’s father, bold and strong, built more like a Shield than a King, brings her hand to his lips, and he kisses them faintly. 

They are so beautiful together.

“You are my wife,” his father nearly whispers, Regis having to strain to hear the man’s normally boisterous voice. “I will covet none other.”

His mother laughs then, and it sounds as if bells are ringing. And simply, but with the force of a declaration, she says to him, “You do not covet. You are in love. She is your Shield.”

Regis’s mother says it as if the words are more than true. She says them in a resolved way, without malice or anger, but also without regret. 

This is the moment Regis begins to uncover the truth of his parent’s marriage, and the truth that will likely be his own.

Eventually the story unfolds to be as such:

Regis’s parents are betrothed to each other from a young age, meeting in the summer to spend time together, and writing to each other in the winter in hopes of kindling a romance. They never fall in love, but they do have fondness for each other. And more than that, they have an understanding. Regis’s mother produces the heir that the Caelum line must so desperately have, and in return she is free to press her attention to Altissia, where her heart truly lies. She travels frequently back to her home, often leaving for months at a time, and finds no loneliness in her solidarity.

And Regis’s father? Regis’s father is already madly in love with Astra Amicitia long before he relinquishes control of his heart to a political marriage of importance. And though nothing untold occurs between them both before Regis’s birth, and the years following it, there are lingering touches, heavy looks, and most importantly, desire.

Regis’s parents do not desire each other, but the great King is very much in love, and when Regis knows what to look for, it’s easy to see that the sentiment is returned. 

Regis tries not to look too much. He understands what the word scandal means. And the Kings do not answer to the people for their liaisons, but monarchies are only as strong as the bond between ruler and ruled. 

It’s a trend, Regis starts to uncover, as the years pass and his tutors allow him more freedom and give him critical attention. 

Kings and Shields seem to have a nasty habit of falling in love with each other.

Regis keeps growing, and things start to happen. 

First, the eldest Amicitia boy, and the one Regis likes the least, leaves for Tenebrae to serve the Oracle’s calling. It’s a bit of a disgrace in the eyes of many within the King’s council. Astra gives nothing away with her words, nor her gestures, nor her actions. She continues on as if such a thing is expected. Maybe she’s known all along.

But a disciple of the Oracle’s calling cannot serve the King as Shield. And even though there is no Oracle now, only the promise of a coming, there can be no conflict of interest between a King and the Shield’s duty.

The next thing that happens, occurs with Regis’s mother. She returns to Altissia, as she usually does for the spring months, when Regis is twelve. But unlike normal, she does not come home in the autumn. 

She writes to him, professes her love for him to be undying, and sends him gifts. She promises that when he’s fifteen, and has his sworn Shield by his side, he’ll come to visit her, and she’ll show him the unrivaled beauty of Altissia. But she doesn’t come home. 

Lastly, this the time when Regis learns that Aulea, who is a close friend and confidant, will be his future wife. She’s the only daughter of his father’s Minister of Commerce, and comes with undeniable pedigree. 

“It’s just a game,” she says to him the first time they see each other after learning they’ll marry in roughly a decade. She’s not older than him, younger in fact by a year and a half, but she’s far wiser. They sit knee to knee on a bench overlooking the city, on a private balcony high in the Citadel. It’s their private spot, one unchaperoned and hardly known in the first place, and it’s where they speak frankly to each other.

“A game?” Regis asks her, head cocking.

“Of politics,” she replies confidently. “Papa said so. And Mama looked upset. It’s the only thing that makes her so upset.”

Regis is quiet for some time, then says, “It’s because of my mom, right?”

The rumors and gossip remains unspoken to Regis, but he hears it all the same. His father’s council, the most powerful people in Lucis, and the public in general, have turned their backs on Regis’s mother. Altissia was once a strong ally, but Regis’s mother has stolen away, and everyone seems to see it as a shirking of her duty to Lucis—choosing the Empire controlled region over the birthplace of her son. 

So Regis is meant to marry Aulea, who is not only beautiful and intelligent, but most importantly Lucian. Her family has resided within the wall of Insomnia itself for a hundred generations, just as long as the Caelum and Amicitia lines, and she’s being wed to Regis in a strategic play. 

“It’s because men are weak and fearful.”

Regis gives her a long look.

The seriousness drops off Aulea’s beautiful face, and she cracks a smile. “That’s what mama always says.” She leaps up to her feet, hands on her hips, and declares, “I will marry you, Prince Regis. Will you marry me?”

She’s not someone Regis loves. He’s still a child. But she’s a friend—maybe his best friend, and better than that, she’s an ally. She’ll stand beside him, even if they never fall in love, and she’ll help him keep Insomnia strong. 

Regis says, “I guess I could do worse.” When they both laugh, he feels like everything is going to be okay.

That feeling lasts for precisely two years. For two years Regis and Aulea grow even closer, though they never fall in love, and Regis begins to transform into the heir apparent his station demands of him. He excels in his lessons, he begins sitting in on his father’s meetings—particularly with his council, and Regis finally travels outside of the city. He goes first to Tenebrae, then to Altissia, and so on.

And when he comes back, more tan than he’s ever been, with a deeper voice and a new sense of Lucian pride, his father grips him on the shoulder and says, “It’s been decided.”

Decided? 

Regis is fifteen now, a hair away from sixteen, and is father expands, “Your Shield, my son. Your Shield has been chosen.”

His Shield, for when he’s king, is something he hasn’t given any thought to. At least not in a very long time. He’s been away seeing Eos, dodging the Empire and enjoying himself.He’s been aware of the selection process, but he certainly hasn’t been involved. Regis has been busy learning diplomacy, and trying not to gain weight eating amazing food all day long. He hasn’t been thinking about Astra’s choice for who’ll succeed her when Regis’s father is not long King, and she is no longer Shield. 

But he should have been.

“Come on!”

Aulea practically rips his arm from his socket the second Regis’s father finishes explaining that Astra Amicitia and her youngest son Clarus, are set to arrive for a proper introduction later that day, and then excuses himself to prepare. She appears practically out of nowhere, like she usually does, and ambushes him as he walks back to his room.

“Why are you so excited?” Regis asks where when they’re through the door to his room and finally have some privacy.

She’s absolutely the most delicate, traditionally feminine, poised woman that Regis spends his time around in public. But when they’re alone, in their own private moments, she’s worse than a naughty child. 

Aulea throws herself down on his high bed and says with baited breath, “Because we all knew it would be Dominous!”

Slowly, Regis eases himself into a chair near her, and he brings himself to nod. Dominous. With the eldest Amicitia brother gone off to join the way of the Oracle, there’s always been the unspoken belief that Dominous would inherit his mother’s position. After all, he’s five years older than Clarus, twenty-five to Clarus’s twenty, and far more accomplished. Dominous is exceptionally skilled with a blade, respectful and attentive. He’s tall and muscled, and even Regis must admit, terribly handsome. 

Before Regis goes on his tour of Eos, Dominous is the clear front runner. Regis expects to come back to him as his future Shield.

But it isn’t him. It’s Clarus. 

“How is it him?” Aulea askes, eyes wide and filled with disbelief. 

“It’s not like he wasn’t a serious candidate,” Regis says, but it feels more like a defensive move than anything else. An odd one. He has no justification to defend a man he hardly knows …except it’s decided. Clarus is his Shield. He and Regis are forever tied together now. 

Aulea rolls onto her stomach, chin propped up by her palms. “Regis,” she eases out, “why him?”

Clarus is not, as Regis has stated and fully believes, a dud of a candidate. It’s just that it seems unlikely that Clarus is the best that the Amicitia line has to offer.

After all, Clarus is … he’s reserved. He’s the most quiet of Astra’s three boys, the slightest and the least impulsive. When he’s spoken to Regis in the past, which has been very little, it’s with a calm, almost too quiet voice. 

Shields are meant to be impossible barriers of strength—immovable mountains of protection. They’re meant to be the thing that offers the most resistance, between king and grave. 

Clarus has always looked to be more of a scholar, than warrior. 

“Do you think he cheated?” Aulea asks, a bit of amazement in her voice. “Maybe he won the position by being clever.”

“No.” Regis says slowly, thinking over what he knows of the Shield trials. “It’s not that kind of test, Aulea. It’s not … you can’t cheat your way to winning.” You can’t cheat a test determined to measure the strength of heart, bravery and courage, and loyalty. “If he won, if he’s Shield, then it’s because he’s the best. Better than Dominous.”

And if Clarus is the best, according to the test, then maybe Regis is wrong to have overlooked him.

“And …” Aulea eases out slowly, as if the knowledge is slowly dawning on her of what Clarus will be to the both of them for the rest of Regis’s life, “do you like Clarus? Did you know him well at all?”

Regis gets up out of his chair, and crosses to the other side of the room. He looks out his window, to the sprawling, magnificent city before him. The people down on the streets are mere specs, but Regis knows he’ll die for anyone of them at any time. They are his people—his responsibility, and he loves them inherently. That feeling deep in him, he knows, is what will help him be a good king

“Regis?”

“We were kept fairly separate growing up,” Regis tells her, leaning a hand up against the glass. “When I was young, I knew one of them would be my Shield. I knew one of them would be the most important person in the world to me, next to you.”

She teases, “Flatterer.”

It’s not flattery. “But there were three of them. There were three Amicitia brothers, and what if I played favorites? What if I influenced the choosing of one over the others?”

But there’s a memory, deep in his mind, that’s clawing its way up to the surface. It’s a memory Regis has nearly forgotten about, but feels more important than ever. 

He’s six. Clarus is eleven.

Regis is adventurous and easily excited, and absolutely a child reflective of his age. And the Citadel, the gleaming jewel in Insomnia, is built to reflect its grandness. This means marble floors, stained glass, sweeping staircases, and polished banisters. 

Regis wants to slide down on the staircase bannisters almost as soon as he’s able to walk. And by six, he’s just old enough to throw a leg up over one side and level his body up onto it. It’s a shaky thing, and one wrong move or shift of his body weight will send him plummeting down several flights of stairs to his death.

When he’s old enough, and strong enough, he’ll be able to use the crystal. He’ll be able to harness magic, and warp. He’s only seen his father do it once. They’re living in a time of peace, and Regis’s father is king of a nation without need of warriors. But Regis knows what it is to warp, and he can’t wait to get his hands on the ability.

Still, for now there’s no such thing. He’s just a regular boy with a dream to slide down a long, winding bannister, and do so while his father is in session with his council, his mother is with her ladies, and his nannies are off searching the west end of the Citadel for him.

Regis flies.

It feels like flying, at least. He picks up so much speed, whipping down the bannister, that he might as well be flying. But the ground comes up fast, and slowing down is really an afterthought, and Regis is nearly to the bottom when he realizes he’s probably going to fly off at the end, smash hard into the floor, and probably end up grounded for a month. If he isn’t dead, that is.

Regis manages one shout for help just before the bottom, as he’s taking the last curve, and then he’s in the air.

But only for a second.

He tumbles into something, solid and firm and unwavering. He still hits the ground, still feels the impact, but it’s just a bump compared to what it might have been. And there’s a warmth surrounding him, holding tight to him, keeping him upright.

It’s Clarus.

Regis has landed on Clarus, practically smushed the boy to the ground, and the two of them are breathing hard.

Clarus asks him, looking a little wild in the eyes, “Your Highness? Are you okay?”

Regis flops free and onto his side, chest heaving as he stairs up at the ceiling.

He startles a little when a warm hand cups the side of his face. And then Clarus, his more brown than blond bangs falling into his line of sight, asks once more if he’s okay. 

This is the most startling, profound memory Regis has of Clarus.

But it’s not the only one.

They’ve interacted very little over the years, but just enough for Regis to think fondly of him. 

After all Clarus has never, to the best of Regis’s knowledge, told a soul that he’s the one who found Regis crying, after discovering that his mother has gone away to Altissia without any intention of coming back.

Still, it feels odd to think that every day for the rest of his life, he’ll surrounded by the sights and sounds of Clarus Amicitia. Regis wondered if every time he looks at Claraus, or even once in a while, he’ll see Astra instead. Clarus looks so much like his mother it’s a little frightening. Regis is a bit fearful he’ll look at Clarus and see the face of the woman who’s been kissing his father behind closed doors.

“Well,” Aulea reasons out, “what’s done is done, right?” A question lights across her face. “You can’t deny him being chosen as your Shield, can you? What if you say you want Dominous instead?”

“Why would I want Dominous instead?”

Dominous has looked at Regis before in the past as if he isn’t sure Regis is fit to be king someday. Clarus has always looked at him with hope. 

Aulea taps her chin. “I remember him being pretty cute, right?”

Dominous and Clarus went away with Asta to train and be tested before Regis left for his tour. Regis is almost sixteen now, and he hasn’t seen either of them since he was fourteen. He remembers Dominous’s attractive face well enough, but he’s never felt any spark of want. Part of Regis is still holding out hope he’ll hold a sexual attraction to Aulea eventually. Because won’t that make conceiving Insomnia’s heir much easier?

And Regius truly wants to be married to someone he loves. Someone he is in love with. He doesn’t want to be like his parents, living estranged from his partner, stealing kisses and whatnot, and hiding truths. 

“Clarus is …”

Before Aulea can remark on whether or not she thinks Clarus is attractive, Regis asks her, “Don’t you have something you need to be getting to? A class? A meeting? Anything?”

Aulea gives him a suspicious look. “Prince Regis, you’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?”

Regis gives her a pointed look. 

She snorts in a deliberately undignified way. “Nice try.”

And so for the next several hours she proceeds to drag out of him every bit of gossip that he knows about Clarus Amicitia. She’s certainly a terrible gossip, absolutely the worst, but it’s part of the reason he likes her so much. 

She’s still there lounging, around in his room, something utterly improper considering they’re meant to be married, when the knock comes to Regis’s door. And then there’s a servant, announcing that Regis’s father is asking for him, and that both Astra and Clarus are on their way.

Practically vibrating with anticipation, Aulea asks, “Do you think he’s going to pledge himself to you tonight? Do you think it’s going to be official?”

Regis tells her plainly, “You’re way too excited about this.”

More than a little huffy, she replies, “If you had to spend your days surrounded by some people who want to flatter you for favors, and others who think you’re an idiot who’ll be satisfied learning how to crochet and bake cookies for her future husband, you’d be excited about this too.”

Floating back to the window, Aulea in tow, Regis tells her, “We’re a lot less different than you think. I mean, Gatius Scientia has been trying to teach me how to not burn toast for about three years now. If I have to hear his same old line about being competent enough not to poison my future bride, I might strangle myself just to end my misery.”

Aulea elbows him in the ribs lightly. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t decide to take me out that way, thanks.”

Regis knows the moment Clarus arrives. His room is far up, certainly, and provides a bird’s eye view of the pavilion down below. When Regis was little, he’d stay up at night, watching the cars come and go. He does it much less now, but he can still spot the difference of when someone important arrives. 

Clarus is absolutely someone important now.

In a decisive way, Aulea decided, “We should go spy.”

Regis gawks at her, then hisses, “We’re not twelve.”

“And you didn’t used to be this boring.”

“I am not boring,” Regis defends, unable to tear his eyes away from the blue car now parked a bit down the rampart. Clarus is in there. He’ll be coming up into the Citadel soon. He’ll be coming to kneel down in front of Regis the pledge himself at the King’s sworn Shield, ready to give his life at a moment’s notice to keep Regis safe.

“Don’t you want to get a peek at him first?” Aulea asks, curiously. “Don’t you want the advantage in a situation you had no choice in?”

Regis doesn’t answer her right away, fighting between his curiosity, and the decorum he knows he should have in the situation.

But then Regis has always vowed to be honest with himself, and this is about more than just being advantageous. 

“Well?” Aulea asks again. “Do you want to see Clarus Amicitia before he has to pledge his entire life to you? Or do you want to go be a good little boy, the prince that your father is expecting you to be, and continue to have no choice in this matter?”

Regis regards her, “I think too many people have severely underestimated you.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You think they’d have learned by now.”

Regis levels a finger up at her. “We can’t get caught. You understand that, right?”

She scoffs. “You and I have lived here for most of our lives. I think we know the best way to get around without being seen.”

Regis takes a firm step back from the window and remarks. “You’re a terrible influence on me.”

Aulea looks far too pleased with herself. 

The truth is, Regis absolutely knows the best way to get around the Citadel without being caught. He’s been doing it since he was a child, and nothing has changed, even with the onset of puberty. 

It’s not hard to determine how Clarus, and presumably Astra will enter. There’s a big foyer reserved for special guests, and Regis is willing to bet his crown that his father will welcome them in there. And spectacularly enough, it just happens to have an overhanging balcony with a back entrance accessible from a practically deserted hallway. It’s definitely a security hazard, but Regis will be the hundred and thirteenth king when he takes the throne, and the Citadel has never been breached in all of its years. Regis hopes it will continue to hold. 

He and Aulea barely manage to make to the balcony before the doors down below are opening, and in comes the King’s Shield herself, Astra Amicitia. Predictably enough, Regis’s father is waiting for her, and with her comes Clarus Amicitia. 

Regis remembers Clarus as too slight. He’s never been skinny, never too thin for his impressive height, but also never as big as his two older brothers, or father. But more than that, Regis remembers a boy with hair a little too shaggy, a little too grown out, almost like an act of defiance. Hair the color of dark blond, the kind constantly threatening to fad completely into darkness, and piercing, icy blue eyes that appeared too perceptive for the age of the boy they belonged to.

Regius simply remembers someone who does not quite look like he’s capable of being the King’s Shield, at least compared to other contenders. 

This boy that Regis keeps in his mind, is certainly not the man who comes striding into the foyer with even steps, and a determined aura. 

There isn’t even a boy to contend. 

Clarus Amicitia, almost twenty-one years old, and the chose Shield for Regis and his coming reign, is most certainly all man now.

He’s as tall as he’s ever been, he’s taller than Regis will probably ever be, and he’s still more thin than heavily built, but there are well defined muscles visible from the outline of the shirt he wears. And suddenly Clarus’s lack of bulkiness is an obvious advantage. He’s probably lightning fast on the battle field, quick on his feet, agile, and more of a threat than his enemy will ever make him out to be. There’s deceptively hidden strength in his form, and with a sturdy, big hand, he reaches out to shake the hand of Regis’s father. 

When Clarus bows low a show of complete respect, there’s no hair to fall into his eyes. He’s buzzed his hair close to the head, probably as a tactical advantage, and from what little there is left, Regis can see he’s gone brunet completely. It’s a good look for him.

His eyes, however, his eyes are exactly the same. They’re still marvelously blue, the kind of light shade comparable to ice, and they’re as calculating as ever. Where Regis has seen reservation begore, he now sees intelligence. As a child, he was not able to understand the reason behind Clarus’s lack of boldness. Now Regis is older, hopefully shrewder, and definitely more perceptive. 

Clarus’s eyes tell the entire story, in one felled glance. 

Lying in wait, preparing to strike victory at the perfect moment, is not the same as timidity. And in war, fortune favors the prudent, not the bold. 

Fingers gripping the edge of the balcony, Regis takes in the whole picture that is Clarus Amicitia. 

He finds nothing lacking.

“Regis,” Aulea whispers to him, too quiet to be heard. Her eyebrows have risen to the top of her forehead. “You’re blushing!”

In a concerned way, Regis brings his hand up to his cheek, feeling the heat there. He is. 

Perhaps he should find something lacking in Clarus, after all. 

Down below Regis hears his father compliment, “Clarus, you have grown into an admirable young man. I trust you will serve the throne with the same reverence your mother has shown, and her father before her.”

Clarus holds the King’s gaze, no small feat, and replies, “The Amicitia line has served the crown faithfully for as long as Insomnia has stood. It’s an honor I intend to see through until the end of my days.”

Regis’s father gives a satisfied, small laugh. “I think it’s high time we go find my wayward son.” 

With a slight smile, Clarus nods. “I would very much like to greet his Highness. I would like to see if he finds me worthy to stand as his Shield.”

The King gestures for them to go and Regis sits back on his knees, feeling a little faint of breath.

“Regis?” Aulea asks, reaching out to touch his sleeve with a concerned look on her face.

A King must always have a Shield. This is the law. This is the tradition. This is the way of life. However never does Regis begin to think that he will have someone like Clarus to stand at his side. Someone inspiring. Someone honorable. Someone …

“By the gods,” Aulea practically squeals into his ear. “He’s so handsome!”

Someone so handsome.

Aulea presses on, “Do you think they’ll let me trade up in husbands? Is that a thing? You’d let me go, right?”

Regis is not one of involvements or indulgences. He’s had the talk, both from his father an other members of the council, about upholding himself and his name properly, and keeping his liaisons firmly from the public eye. Regis has never had this problem. He isn’t one to go out looking for a quick moment of pleasure. He rarely finds the time to be attracted to others in general.

But Clarus?

Clarus Amacita is absolutely attractive to Regis Lucis Caelum. There’s staggering proof in the heat radiating off Regis’s face, the thudding in his chest, and the telltale tightening of his pants. Clarus is the most attractive man Regis has ever seen in his life, and the worst part is, Aulea knows it.

She has, continuing her thought process from before, “Of course, you are my best friend, and you’ll be my king one day, so if you need me to, I guess I could give him up to you. Maybe I could be generous. I could try.”

The room below them is thinning out, so Regis staggers up to his feet and into the hallway. He breathes out deeply through his mouth and puts a hand to his chest. It’s just a natural reaction, he tells himself. Clarus is undeniably attractive, and knows to say all the right things. A cactuar would find itself attracted. 

“And just think,” Aulea says to him while Regis is trying to get his pulse under control, “you’re going to have him lurking around you for the next seventy years, looking hot, talking about how he’ll protect you from anything. Regis, he’ll shield you with his body. He’ll—”

“Aulea,” Regis says a little too sharply. She quiets and he feels regret. “He’s my Shield. You and I are not in love with each other, no matter how much we care for each other and the fact that we will have to get married. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to go throwing myself at the next random handsome man I see.”

She lets him finish before she says, “I’ve been glued to your side for the better part of a decade, Regis, and I’ve never seen you look that interested in someone, ever. Neither, I should remind you, is Clarus Amicitia just some random handsome man. 

The thing is, Regis doesn’t want to be his father. At least concerning his Shield, his father is not an apt remodel to imitate. Regis doesn’t want to be a king whose wife is eager to leave him, and then takes a married partner into his bed. Because Clarus will certainly marry now, obligated to continue the Amicitia line of Shields. Regis will not be that adulterer, no matter who is okay with what. 

Regis has mostly put himself together by the time he gets to the area of the Citadel he’s supposed to wait for his father in. Aulea hurries along with him, but they’re late. They’re late and the King does not like to be kept waiting by anyone, ever.

“My apologies,” Regis rushes out when he finds his way to his father’s side. He gives his father an apologetic bow, and feels Aulea do the same. His father won’t ruin the moment, at least not with so many people watching, by making a scene. But Regis can already tell he’s in for a lecture later on. It seems one is never too old to be lectured by his father. 

“Your Highness Prince Regis.”

At the sound of Clarus’s voice, Regis swings towards him. It’s instinct, really. That’s what he tells himself.

He finds the youngest son of his father’s Shield down on one knee, head bowed in reverence. 

For just a split second, one that hardly matters, all Regis can see is the young boy who caught him at the banister, bracing him from hitting the floor, keeping him safe.

The words that Clarus says are as old as the monarchy. It’s a practiced speech, full of flowery prose and declarations of loyalty. Regis already knows the words because he’s read up on what to expect. Regis greatly dislikes being caught off guard. But to hear another speak the words with such veneration is something else entirely. 

Clarus is looking upon him with the kind of dedication that Astra looks upon the King with.

Regis believes Clarus will give his life to protect him, and certainly without hesitation. It’s something that should comfort him, but instead it only makes his stomach want to claw its way up into his throat. 

“I accept your words,” Regis repeats back solemnly, as he’s been coached to, “Clarus Amicitia. The line of Caelum takes you into its fold.May your burden be light. May your heart remain true. May you give your life for the throne as need be.” 

There’ll be a formal ceremony in the coming weeks, one full of pomp and circumstance, the kind that Regis and Aulea often mock behind closed doors. Once more, Clarus will speak the same oath and ask for appointment. Once more Regis will reply appropriately, and take him on as his Shield. 

But this? This feels different. This feels like … it barely feels like anyone but the two of them are in the room. It feels like no one else in all of Eos matters. 

When Regis is king, just once more Clarus will repeat his oath. At that moment, he will kiss the Ring of Lucii that Regis will wear—that the King currently wears. 

In the absence of that, Clarus’s head only dips lower. No one offers any objection, and as quick as that, Regis and the line of Kings once more has a Shield. Tradition continues. 

So why is it that Regis feels like he’s the burdened one?

They have the call for dinner less than an hour later, and Regis does his best to wear a look of pleasantness on his face, even as he feels his throat tighten with each passing moment.

Underneath the table, fielding pleasant conversation with envious ease, Aulea squeezes his hand. 

Regis feels overburdened with emotions, and most of them make little to no sense.

Some of them make too much. 

Clarus is silent as he follows Regis down the hall after dinner. Aulea’s stayed behind for an after dinner conversation with the Minister of Defense, but Regis has little patience for politics at the moment. So he retires, and Clarus follows. 

There are a set of rooms to the south of Regis’s own. They’ve been empty for as long as he can remember, cold and closed off. And Regis has never really stopped to consider who they’re for, but now he knows. 

“If you have need of me, Highness, don’t hesitate to call,” Clarus says simply while Regis sits wearily on the edge of his bed. 

“Clarus,” Regis says softly.

“Highness,” Clarus returns, but there’s a hit of something amused on his face. He adds gently, a moment later, “the first few months are the most difficult.” He sounds genuine as he talks. “My mother warned me about this, but his Majesty may not have told you. The first few months are always the most difficult.”

“Difficult?” Regis repeats back. 

Clarus amends, “Uncomfortable. The time of your independence is over, your Highness. From this point on, Prince Regis, you should be ready to take the throne at any moment. You have me to stand at your side now, and support you however you may need. Your father takes comfort in that, but you?You should be prepared.”

Prepared for what? Regis is fifteen. He’s a long way off from being ready to stand as King. And his father is in good health, despite the strain of the crystal.There hasn’t been an assassination in the royal family, let alone the king, in fifty generation. And while Niflheim continues to be problematic and adversarial, there are none that dispute the time of peace they are living in. 

Again, Clarus says, “If you have need, call, Highness.”

Clarus turns towards the door that conjoins their rooms, and Regis calls out to him, stopping him.

When Clarus swings back, Regis asks, unable to help himself, “What happened to your brother?”

Of course Regis means to say that Dominous has always been the favorite to win the position of King’s Shield, but since the decision has been made, no one has seen him. Regius is nothing if not curious. 

“The last time I heard,” Clarus says, “he’s knee deep in tomes of holy content in Tenebrae.”

“I …”

Clarus laughs a little, and it sounds nice. Very nice. Regis hasn’t heard laughter sound so nice since his own mother’s. 

“Dominous,” Clarus supplies, obviously taking pity on Regis. “You mean Dominous, right, Highness?”

The relief must show on his face as Regis nods.

There’s a tint of teasing hidden in there, somewhere, but as fast as Regis finds it, he loses it. And then he’s left with Clarus whose face betrays nothing, even as he says, “Dominous, I suspect, fully intended to win this place at your side. The place I now occupy.

Regis nods, but he can’t help feeling the possessive touch to Clarus’s voice and words.

“He’s gone off to lick his wounds.” In an encouraging way, Clarus adds, “He was bested by his younger brother, for the most coveted position he might desire. He will come back when he’s ready, but that likely won’t be for a while. Unless the King commands it, obviously. Or you ask for him personally.”

Regis frowns. “I accepted you as my Shield. Why would I call for him?”

Clarus doesn’t answer the question, but the touch of something is back on his face. And instead the man says, “The hour is growing late, Highness. I’m a light sleeper. I’ll hear you if you call out.”

There aren’t any assassins hiding in his closet, Regis wants to tell him. 

“Clarus,” Regis says with finality. “Why did your mother pick you, instead of Dominous to be my Shield?” He has to know. It’s practically eating away at him.

Clarus stares at him evenly for a moment, then tells him, “She must have found me more worthy.”

The answer feels like a copout, and Regis doesn’t like it. He fully intends to find out he real reason. And if Regis is nothing but curious, he’s also equally stubborn.


	2. Chapter Two

Things do, as promised, get better. They get easier. Regis stops feeling unnerved every time he turns to look over his shoulder and Clarus is there, watching him. It makes him feel less anxious as the days pass, to always have someone a half dozen steps behind him.

And just as slow as the days pass, so does Clarus open up to him. Maybe they simply start to communicate with each other a little better. They hold conversations more than thirty seconds long, Clarus smiles more often, and Regis learns to weather the rush of his pulse.

Regis turns sixteen, finally, and suddenly everything feels a little more intense. The years are stacking up on him, and if there was a dispute before about him no longer being a child, there is none now.

His father gifts him a series of family heirlooms that hold great importance for the future king of Lucis. And from his mother comes spices and treats from Altissia that are impossible to find anywhere else, along with a letter that he reads no less than three times in a row, savoring her words of adoration, praise, and love.

Aulea sneaks him out of the Citadel at lunch on his birthday, stuffs him in the back of a car, and takes him so far to the south that they’re practically in Leide, before setting him down in front of a ram-shack looking noodle house that doesn’t seem up to health code.

Regis makes Clarus sit down and eat with the two of them, and it turns out the noodle house has the best food in all of Insomnia.

The meal ends with them laughing and joking, and for one moment, Regis getting to feel normal.

Regis is starting to understand how precious the moments of normalcy are.

When he goes back to the Citadel, tired but pleased, he takes company with his father, who holds him close and hugs tightly. His father says all the things that Regis still needs to hear from the man he idolizes, and together they share a glass of brandy. Regis chokes the liquid down, more than anything else, but then again, it’s not really the brandy that matters.

Regis is changing for bed, already in his sleeping clothes and tucking away his mother’s letter for safe keeping, when he hears Clarus knock on the door that separates their two rooms.

It’s an odd thing, to say the least. Clarus never enters through their shared door. If he needs to speak with Regis, or escort him somewhere, he enters from the hallway, at the main door.

“Come in,” Regis calls out.

He feels a little odd, standing in his bedroom in his night clothes, while Clarus enters still fully dressed like he might depart the Citadel at any time. But then all of that is put from Regis’s mind when he spies the small, silver wrapped package in Clarus’s hands.

“Clarus,” Regis starts, trying not to misread the situation.

“I hope,” Clarus edges out, “that one day I can be your friend as much as you Shield. Will you let this be the start?” He holds the present out for Regis.

Slowly, almost as if he’s expecting Claris to take the object back, Regis reaches out for it carefully. But he’s sure to say, “You helped Aulea sneak me out of the Citadel today, away from my lessons, so we could go eat noodles in a less than reputable part of town. We had a good time. You’ve actually got a sense of humor, despite what you seem to want people to think.  So I think we’re already there, if you want us to be.”

The intensity of Clarus’s eyes ebbs a little, and he urges, “Happy birthday, Prince Regis. Please open your gift.” Regis can see anticipation in the Shield’s eyes now, and excitement. Maybe even a touch of worry.

Regis feels the need to assure, “Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll love it.”

He makes quick work of the paper, and then the box that’s underneath. And when he reaches past the tissue, his fingers hit something cold.

He pulls his present free and holds it up to the light, feeling a little slack jawed and awed by the item.

The mythril shines in the light, like a beacon guiding one home, glossy and gleaming and cut into a perfect rectangle. There is a cartouche stamped on the surface of one side, and when Regis gazes more intensely at it, he recognizes the scene depicted

“Where did you get this?” Regis asks, astounded that it even exists.

It’s the astral Bahmut stamped on the mythril. And there’s just enough detail shown for Regis to guess it’s a scene depicting Bahamut coming to Tenebrae and, according to legend, choosing the first Oracle.

It’s absolutely gorgeous, and it’s easy to see that only a true craftsman is responsible for it.

“My mother took Dominous and I to be tested near Galdin Quay. There are quite a few artisans in the area,” Claurs reveals. “I saw it, and I knew it was meant for you.”

Confuses seeps through Regis. “How?” He has nothing but questions for Clarus. “For me?”

Clarus is fairly notorious for keeping his distance from Regis. Often it seems entirely too deliberate, rather than something engrained in him by his mother. But now he steps forward, pressing into Regis’s personal space. He reaches up to let the pendant rest in his palm, the form of Bahamut visible for them both to see.

“Bahamut is your favorite, isn’t he?”

Regis only nods a bit numbly. Bahamut is by far, his favorite astral. It’s Bahamut, the legends say, who gave the crystal to a king of Lucis, and Bahamut who loves mortals best of all the astrals. Bahamut favors them. And Regis loves his stories best of all. 

“How do you know that?”

Gently, Clarus tugs the pendant free of Regis’s hold and undoes the clasp. Then he reaches forward, pressing fully into Regis’s personal space, and places the silver chain around his neck.

“I remember from when we were young. You’d hide away from your lessons in the great library, and if you had a book with you, when you weren’t busy playing in your own world, it was always a book about the mythology of Eos. You lingered on Bahamut’s passages more than the other astrals.”

Far too often, Regis finds that Clarus is the cause of his blushing.

“I was a kid!” Regis defends.

He’s then distracted by Clarus further, because for the first time, Regis realizes he can smell Clarus. And Clarus has a distinct smell.

Clarus smells like Cleigne wheat and the kind of soap that can only be imported in from Galdin Quay. He smells like the outdoors, and cleanliness, all at the same time.

“—highness?”

Regis startles a little. He feels the weight of the mythril around his neck now, and the pendant hangs down his chest, swaying near his heart. It’s a good length of chain that’ll make it easy to hide under a shirt.

Regis brings a hand up to the pendant. “Thank you,” he says.

“You’d leave your books out,” Clarus reveals, and finally a true, glorious smile breaks out on his face. It makes him look more handsome than Regis has dared to admit to himself. “You’re much more neat now, but when you were young, you’d leave your books out. That’s how I knew Bahamut was your favorite. And when I was being tested, when my mother was choosing, I bought this for you because I knew if I won, if I became your Shield, your birthday wouldn’t be too far off. I was … hopeful.”

It’s the sentiment of it, that really gets to Regis.

But the pleasure of a tease pushes up in him, and he tells Clarus, “That’s awfully bold of you, to think you might win against your older, stronger brother.”

Clarus shrugs a little, mirth in his expression. “No matter what, Dominous was always going to be stronger than me. Older, too. So I became faster, and smarter, and more cunning. Because as badly as he wanted this, I wanted it more. I just had to prove it.”

Regis’s voice fails him a little as he asks faintly, “Why? Why would you want to be the King’s Shield so badly? To place yourself into this kind of harm and forfeit your life for mine if need be?”

Clarus’s fingers brush against Regis’s, the tips mingling together against the mythril.

Clarus says, “Mythril is good luck. It’s supposed to have protective properties, and that’s why the rarest of weapons are made from it. Wear that and I have faith it’ll help keep you safe. If Bahamut has a favorite among men, chances are, it’s the men of the Caelum line.”

Clarus retires to his room then, and Regis is left standing in the middle of his own, wearing his Shield’s birthday present, flushed a deep red. His heart is thumping hard again, and his palms are a little sweaty.

He feels …

In a matter of seconds, Clarus has made him feel more alive than ever before in his life.

He’s made Regis feels special, too. After that, as nothing but silence greets Regis in his room, he contemplates what it all means.

It’s entirely possible Clarus is just a generous individual. He’s a little stiff, yes, and a little standoffish, but still a genuinely good person. He’s not attempting to buy favor from Regis with the present. And if there’s some ulterior motive to it, Regis can’t say.

He only knows that Clarus’s gift is already a treasured possession, and he won’t be taking it off for anything less than catastrophe.

“It’s a crush,” Aulea teases as soon as she picks up on it. Regis doesn’t really think she has much room to speak, because Regis has seen the proof of her midnight visits to the low end of Insomnia, placed down on her neck, hidden by high collared shirts for some number of days. And he’s always kept his mouth shut then. She should take a page from his book.

“Quiet,” he tells her as he’s trying to listen to the Captain of the Crownsguard. He and Aulea, along with several dozen other officials, are supposed to be being briefed for the upcoming Lunar celebration. It’s a huge event that the King usually presides over for the coming prosperity of the kingdom. But this year, for the first time, the King has passed the responsibility to Regis.

Aulea give him an unrelenting look with her deep blue eyes. “It’s okay to have a crush, you know. It just proves you’re actually human.”

The Captain of the Crownsguard is explaining the security procedures they’ve put in place, but Regis’s eyes have drifted across the atrium to where Clarus is standing with his mother, almost hunched in against her, talking in a low voice that Regis has no chance of hearing. Clarus is in full uniform now, but it’s nothing compared to what he’ll wear to the celebration, which will fully mark him as Regis’s Shield.

“Kissing is just kissing,” Aulea whispers to him. “Trust me. It’s fun, it takes the edge off, and it’s no big deal.”

A little huffy, Regis says back, “Clarus is twenty-one. What would he want to kiss a kid for?” He doesn’t even bother to deny the truth of her words. Aulea has known him far too long to be distracted or dissuaded. So instead he tries reason.

Clarus is absolutely a man, and certainly not just because he’s old enough to be a King’s Shield. And Regis? Regis is barely halfway through puberty.

“You’re sixteen,” she pushes back. “Not a kid. And I think you should take a good look in the mirror the next time you’re in front of one. You’re pretty cute.”

They manage to get through the meeting without dying of boredom. But just barely. Regis isn’t looking forward to standing on a platform the following day until sunset, giving speeches and heralding in traditional ceremonies. Of all the things the king does, these are the least favorite of his.

Clarus must sense the apprehension he’s feeling, because when they’re in the privacy of Regis’s room, he puts his hand gently at the crook of his elbow and says, “You don’t have anything to worry about. You’ll do just fine.”

“I’ll forget my speech,” Regis levies back, and being in such close proximity to Clarus he’s hyper aware of the cool metal of the mythril under his shirt, against his skin. “It’s happened before.”

Amused, Clarus reminds, “You were twelve at the time, Highness. And no one remembered a week after.”

Regis mumbles, “I remembered.”

Clarus decides, “A good night’s sleep will help your memory,” and that’s all but an order to go to bed. Regis definitely has it in his mind to ask his father, the next time he sees him, about whether his own Shield is so pushy.

In the bathroom, before getting into bed, Regis stares at his face in the mirror. He doesn’t see what Aulea does, apparently. He doesn’t see a cute teenage boy. He only sees himself, with his pale skin made only paler by his dark hair, and maybe too sharp, too angular features. There’s nothing handsome about the obvious burden he already carries.

He hasn’t yet connected to the crystal, not like his father, and yet already it strains him. It’s in his blood, and it shows.

In the morning, after a fitful night of sleep, Regis rises with the sun. He hasn’t had attendants to dress him since his childhood. But today, because of its importance, he has people swarming him from the moment he gets out of the bath. And to be truthful, it takes a lot to get him up and into the layers he’s expected to wear, with countless traditional pieces adorning him, and a wealth of history resonating from his clothing.

All in all, his clothing makes him look cumbersome, unlike Aulea who wears her own layers with poise and grace, continuing to lead him to believe that she will be the kind of queen that Insomnia will prosper from.

“Ready?” Clarus’s voice sounds from behind them, after they’ve gotten sorted.

Regis has seen the King’s Shield’s clothing for these kinds of traditional events. He’s seen Astra Amicitia wear the silvers and whites and light purple. Now he sees Clarus wear them, and Regis’s pulse practically pushes out at his chest, bumping along the mythril.

The way Regis’s understands it, the king will follow along a bit later, after the first of the speeches are delivered, and after the food becomes abundant, and the music loud. He’ll come to deliver his own blessing to the lunar cycle when Regis has had time to endear himself to the people, and to prove he’s capable of handling their twice a year celebration.

So Regis stands alone for a time.

He’s not really alone, obviously. He has Aulea at his side, playing the part of the perfect bride to be, and he has three councilmen to his left, the Minister of Education slightly behind him, and then of course he has Clarus.

In his own right, Clarus should be standing near Regis for his name alone. The Amicitia line is practically royalty, and have been so for a very long time. There are such families in Insomnia that carry weight.

But instead Clarus stands to the side, looking at Regis with determination and expectation. Clarus, too noticeably, believes in him, and he’s waiting to hear Regis’s speech.

Regis has to focus on the crowd, on the thousands and thousands of citizens of Insomnia and beyond that have gathered to gathered to hear him speak. His nerves rattle as he thinks of his mother, in Altissia, probably listening to his broadcast on a radio, having written him about being unable to come home for the event.  Regis had nearly written back in some sulk that Insomnia hasn’t been her home in a long time.

But through it all he can feel Clarus’s eyes on him, burning through the layers of clothing he wears, getting under his skin and lurking there like a blanket.

He remembers his words, miraculously. He gives his speech about honor and tradition, about the lunar cycles and the gods. He proclaims about peace and devotedness, and all of the things that keep a kingdom strong from within. It seems to go over well. The people are cheering for him when he finishes. They seemed charmed, which means success, and Regis feels nothing but relief.

He’s practically riding high on the euphoric feeling of success, maybe a little proud of himself, when he swings back towards Clarus.

Regis frowns. Clarus isn’t where he’s supposed to be. Aulea is within in line of sight, clapping and looking at him with devotion. But Clarus?

Regis only sees the blur of Clarus, really, before a call to arms is going up, gunfire is sounding, and the whole place goes to chaos.

Something impacts Regis so hard it throws him off his feet. He slams backwards and the air is choked out of his lungs. Then all of the sudden he can see the sky above him, lit pink and orange and so, so beautiful. It reminds him of how little he stops now, simply stops, to look at the smallest things in life. How long as it been since he and Aulea simply watched the stars?

He feels regret.

Then he feels pain.

His chest is on fire, his lungs are burning, and he’s heaving up panic as the screaming crowd roars with intensity.

Clarus slides into place next to him, his bigger, bulkier body practically hiding Regis’s away into nothing, and Regis can hear him shouting, “His Highness is down! Secure the shooter! Call for reinforcements!”

Regis gasps for air as his fingers curl into the material at Clarus’s shoulder. The burning in his chest is spreading wildly now, blooming outward, and all Regis can think is that he’s been shot. He’s definitely been shot.

“You’re okay,” Clarus says to combat that thought, and then his big hand comes up to cup the side of Regis’s face. It’s the same move mirroring the moment in their childhood in the Citadel, when Clarus caught him and saved him from crashing off the stairwell banister to the hard ground. “Highness?”

Regis only manages to choke out, “Hurts!” It feels like someone is standing on his chest, jumping the air out of it.

“You will be fine,” Clarus vows, and then his hand is gone from Regis’s face, and he’s tugging Regis up into his hold. Then they’re moving.

The world blurs around Regis. He catches glimpses of Crownsguard sprinting past, Aulea with her panicked face being whisked away to safety, and Insomnia’s people running in every which direction. There’s more than just chaos and confusion going on around them, and Regis can definitely hear more gunfire.

He’s dragging in gasps of too thin air through his teeth by the time he realizes they’re not outside anymore.

Someone, definitely not Clarus, shouts, “Hurry. Over here!”

Regis lands on something soft. He’s dizzy, his vision spinning about, and the shouting…he just wants people to stop shouting.

“Your highness,” Clarus says, putting himself at front and center so Regis has to focus on him. “Breathe. Keep breathing.”

All of the sudden, and certainly without warning, Clarus’s hands are ripping at his shirt. Buttons are flying everywhere and Regis wants to call foul. He’s got quite the embarrassing touch of a crush on Clarus, but he’s not interested in tumbling into bed with him at the moment. Any yet here Clarus is, pulling up his shirt out of his pants, fighting past the layers to get to his skin underneath.

“I have to check,” Clarus says a little snappishly, not slowing in the least. “I have to see the damage.”

Oh. Because he’s been shot. Regis still feels the impact in him now, like an echo.

In a room lowly lit, almost like they’re hiding, Clarus gets his shirt open, his jacket pushed back, and his skin exposed.

He’s shot. Only he’s not. Only he is.

Still trying to calm his breathing, which is more muddled now than anything else, Regis watches as Clarus reaches with uncharacteristically shaking hands for the pendant he’s been wearing since it was gifted to him. The mythril is dim in the room, but it’s easy to see where it’s taken an impact of some kind.

Mythril is practically indestructible, and so when Regis looks at the spot where it has obviously been dinged by a bullet, the truth of the situation crashes into him.

Anything strong enough to damage mythril, is strong enough to kill without exception.

“Thank the gods,” Clarus breathes out.

 The skin around the area where Regis was wearing the mythril pendant is red and inflamed, showing the exact location of the impact. It will absolutely bruise, and terribly so. But Regis is alive, and his breathing will recover—he’s probably just in shock.

“I …” Regis tries to say, eyes locked to the mythril.

He’s only alive because of Clarus’s gift. He’s only still breathing because of sheer, dumb luck.

Gently now, more gently than Regis has ever experienced, Clarus helps him lay back fully on the bed he now knows he’s on. Clarus helps him cover back up, and then his fingers are pressing against Regis’s forehead. It seems more like it’s an action for Clarus’s benefit, than Regis’s.

“What happened?” Regis demands. “Is Aulea okay?”

Clarus nods right away. “Lady Aulea is safe. She was spirited away to safety by her protector.” He sits back a little. “As for what happened …” Clarus doesn’t seem to have any more answers than Regis.

“Sir,” a crownsguard says, coming to Clarus’s side and speaking lowly. “We’ve made contact with bravo support team dispatched by the king directly. We’re to relay out position immediately for extraction.”

Clarus gives a firm nod and stands, leaving Regis’s side cold and lonely. His Shield says, “Follow procedure. Ask for code verification before giving the prince’s location away.”

The soldier hurries away to follow orders.

“Clarus?” Regis calls out.

Immediately Clarus turns back to him, kneeling down to his level. “Highness?”

Regis forces himself to calm. He’s shot, it’s a truth, but he’ll survive. There’s no bullet rattling around inside of him. There’s only the truth that Clarus is the reason he’s alive, and this is something Regis will never forget

It takes the better part of an hour for Regis to move from the private house Clarus and the crownsguard commandeered for him, to the safety of the Citadel. But when it does happen, things move quickly, and Regis loses track of Clarus. His life becomes a blur of doctors and his father’s terrified face, and then he’s being settled into his bedroom to rest.

“I could have lost you today,” his father whispers to him in the quiet of his dark bedroom. His father has been sitting next to Regis bed for some time. Every once in a while he’ll reach out for Regis and touch his hand, only to draw back for more prolonged silence.

Regis can’t remember the last time his father sat by his bedside. Years previous, maybe. In his childhood, yes.

Regis asks, “What happened?”

His father can only reply, “Astra isn’t sure yet. She’s coordinating with Yeolin Leonis to determine that as we speak. When I have answers, so will you.”

For two days Regis stays in his room. Clarus does not come to see him, but neither does Aulea, and it makes him suspicious. Clarus, perhaps, Regis can understand. After all, Clarus no doubt is off attempting to catch the culprit or culprits who ruined the event. But Aulea? Are her parents so shaken they won’t allow her out, either? It does eat into Regis’s stomach, how close she stood to him. It could have been her who was hit, and she would have worn no protection.

At the end of the second day, Regis ignores the orders of his father and King to stay put, and instead goes to find answers.

The servants and crownsguard bumble around the moment they see him, but they capitulate easily enough, letting him learn his father’s location in a matter of minutes.

His father does not look pleased to see him, surrounded by advisors and Astra in what must surely be the war room, but which Regis has never seen used before.

“Regis,” his father says, a frown on his face. “You should be in bed, resting.”

“I’m fine,” Regis says stubbornly. He looks from face to face. “I want to know what’s going on. I’m old enough.”

From his father’s side, Astra turns to him and says, “He is old enough. You know of what I speak.” Regis gets the feeling they’re not talking about the matter at hand.

“Leave us,” the king requests, and slowly but surely the room empties. Then Regis is left alone with his father, not even Astra remaining.

Regis wastes no time going to his father’s side and demanding, “What happened? Who shot me?”

“I wish that were a simple answer,” his father says, and Regis feels the heaviness of his words. “We’ve reviewed the footage now. Would you like to see it?”

There’s security footage. Of course there is, even though it’s something Regis hasn’t thought of.

And yes, he wants to see it.

It’s one single man acting alone. This is what Regis sees, or at least what the situation appears to be. He’s dressed in traditional Lucian robes, the same as most of the people in the crowd, and he’s very near the front dais where Regis sees himself speaking. There are guards stationed about, some of them armed, and the one nearest the man certainly is.

It’s like watching someone else’s life, Regis decides. It seems unreal to see the man pull a short dagger from his boot and ram it into the side of the guard nearest him. It’s as simple as stealing the guard’s weapon, taking aim at Regis, and letting off one precision shot. The man is obviously a good marksman. It’s a kill shot. He just doesn’t plan on the item that Regis is wearing under his clothing.

“Who is he?”

Regis’s father replies, “A citizen of Gralea.”

Regis balks. “Gralea?” Regis has never been to Gralea, and he never, ever will. The closest he’s ever gone is Tenebrae, and even that close to the Empire’s capital is enough to cause nerves. “Why did he shoot me?”

The King’s head hangs. “He carried with him forged papers that allowed him into Insomnia without the customary background vetting. His family back in Gralea has also seen a substantial change in fortune—the difference between pauper and king.” The darkness of his father’s eyes, when the man looks at him, are that of a black hole. “These papers, and this increase in wealth …”

Again, Regis wonders, “What was the payoff? I mean, other than my death, of course? Who would stand to gain from my death?” Regis already knows the answer before his father speaks.

Niflheim has been combative with the Kings of Lucius for over a hundred generations. And especially since the Lucian-Accordio Alliance, and then its sub-sequential failure.

Niflheim openly covets the crystal, the one bestowed upon Lucian kings for their protection, and only usable via them.

Niflheim has also been too quiet, as of late.

Niflheim has too much to gain and nothing to lose, from disrupting the sanctity and stability of the Lucian monarchy. 

Regis doesn’t wait for his father to say it, instead prompting, “Have they claimed responsibility?”

His father scoffs. “And declare open war? Insomnia is the strongest it has ever been. Niflheim’s hand may be extending at a rapid rate, but they are not capable of standing against us, and they are very aware of this. An open declaration of war would bring our allies to the forefront, and stall their operations. They will never claim responsibility for their attempt to destroy us from the inside out.”

Feeling as if they’re on the cusp of something terrible, Regis asks, “How will we respond?”

His father replies, “By becoming stronger. Come with me.”

Regis knows where they’re going long before they arrive.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed in here anymore,” Regis states as guards step aside to let the door open in front of them.

“You were not,” the King says, tellingly.

The crystal is … magnificent and terrifying all at once. He feels its raw power clawing its way into his very essence already, and his body staggers a little. His father catches his arm in a predictable way, keeping him on his feet.

“It calls to you already,” his father says, unease on his face.

“You’re the king,” Regis protests. “I’m not supposed to feel much from it until it’s my right.”

It’s the reason, he figures out moments later, that his father has always denied him entrance to the room, except on rare occasions.

“The crystal calls to power who it calls.” His father looks even older in the moment, lines etched deep on his face, hair completely gray, body leaking weariness like a cracked bathtub. “It strains us merely by existing, but even more when we use it. Until now, I’ve tried to spare you that. But a threat is rising up on the horizon, and I must see you protected.”

“Niflheim? Is war coming?” The rumblings of it have never been louder.

“I pray not in my lifetime,” his father breathes out, “or yours, or your son’s.”

Regis’s eyes fall past his father, to the crystal. He’s always felt the pull of the crystal. All true members of the bloodline feel it. But he’s never actively attempted to use it. He holds none of the arms that his father does, none of the abilities, and performs no magic. Except it feels now like change is coming.

“You want me to pull from the crystal?” Regis asks.

“I want you to be able to protect yourself,” his father says gruffly, “when others fail to.”

Regis bites out, “Clarus. You mean Clarus.”

In a worrying way, his father’s shoulders shrug.

“Where is Clarus?” Regis takes a challenging step towards his father. “Why haven’t I seen him in days?”

“The council is reviewing his actions,” the king provides. “To determine the correct course of action with him.”

Shock and near revulsion sinks into Regis. “What? Why!”

His father rounds on him. “Because Clarus Amicitia is meant to be your Shield! He is the one who takes the bullet, not you!”

It’s just fear. Regis can see it on his father’s face. It sounds like anger, but it’s really fear.

Regis has no place for fear anymore.

“Clarus saved my life!” He fumbles for a minute, digging under his shirt for the pendant made of mythril. “This is what stopped the bullet. This is what saved my life, and Clarus is the one who gave it to me.” He lets the metal shine in the odd lighting of the crystal’s room. “And when I went down, when I thought I was dying and could hardly breathe, Clarus is the one who acted first. He dragged me away from the chaos, he got me to a safe space, and he made sure I stayed that way until the extraction team was there. Clarus did that.”

His father doesn’t look moved. “The security footage doesn’t lie. His reactions were slow. He might have reached you before the bullet, if he realized what was happening from the beginning.”

Regis feels himself shake a bit. “Clarus did everything right. It’s your men, father, who were unprepared for an attack. Where were the crownsguard when this man who nearly killed me was wrestling a gun into his hands?”

“The council will decide who carries secondary fault.”

“Clarus is my Shield.”

Clarus is the one person, next to Aulea, that Regis trusts. Clarus is the man that Regis is finding friendship with. Clarus’s presence gives him peace of mind, more than he’s ever really stopped to consider, and Clarus is a built-in companion of the highest caliber. Regis can see himself sitting upon the throne his father does, if he has a Shield like Clarus to stand strong next to him.

Regis won’t have anyone else

“The council—”

“I don’t care about the council,” Regis snaps out, and he can feel the power of the crystal thrumming under his skin, feeding him power and potential. “Clarus is my Shield. He pledged himself to me. He’s my choice. And no one is going to take him away from me. No one.”

Much more quietly, the older man says, “Astra has never doubted her choice in Clarus as her successor before this. She doubts him now. Not his heart. Not his fortitude. But his experience. I do too.”

“Then fix his weaknesses,” Regis says bluntly, unforgivingly. “Give him opportunity to learn, to grow, and to be strong. I’m not king. I won’t be for some time. We have time.”

“Do we?” His father doesn’t sound convinced.

So just once more, Regis says, “I’ll have none other.” He’s not a particularly stubborn person. He’s good at finding compromise and accepting the things that are expected of him. But in this, there is no compromise.

His father gives him an odd smile, then. One that seems just a little proud.

Regis is making to ask him what it’s about, when the man says, “You will be a great king someday, Regis. You’ll be greater than any of the kings that have come before you. And despite the doubts I now have about Clarus’s readiness, I believe you’ve chosen well.”

As far as Regis is concerned, the matter is settled. So he dares to take a step towards the crystal. Curiously, he asks, “How do I …” Use it? Access it? Do more than stand idly by and let it grab at him.

His father holds a hand out to him. “I will teach you.”

In this moment, Regis feels every bit his father’s son.

The following morning, Clarus knocks softly at his door to inform him that his father has asked to have a private breakfast with Regis. Clarus has come to make sure he’s up and moving, and ready for the meal in less than an hour.

A little awkwardly from his bed, his legs tangled in the blankets from the previous night’s sleep, Regis stares at him. He can’t help mumbling out, “You’re here. You’re …” He’s wearing all of the pins and sashes that identify his positon as the future King’s Shield.

“Your father said something about training?” Clarus poses. “He’s cleared his schedule for the coming days, and I can’t remember the last time the king did that.”

“Are you ... Clarus.” Regis doesn’t want to jinx the situation.

“I’ll escort you down there when you’re ready,” Clarus tells him. “And Lady Aulea will meet you for lunch tomorrow, when her personal duties have passed.”

Regis throws his legs over the side of the bed. Does Clarus even know how close he came to losing his position? Regis isn’t looking for praise or recognition. He’s just actually curious.

“Better hurry,” Clarus says, going to close the door after him and leave Regis in privacy to bathe and change.

Regis resolves not to say anything to Clarus. Better that the situation simply passes.

Learning to harness the power of the crystal without completely overwhelming himself, is a task of great difficulty. Regis’s father makes it look easy, but Regis learns too quickly that the crystal has no steady ebb and flow. It dumps great amounts of power on those who access it, with little care for the conclusion. It has no mind of its own. It has nothing that marks it as sentient. And so it gives and gives and gives, to those that it finds worthy, and Regis is stunned from it.

His father does his best to teach him control. The king is patient, if demanding, and coaches Regis through each failed attempt to harness the power and then do with it what his will demands.

“You are the master,” his father says, pushing at Regis in a relenting way. “You will be responsible for connecting to the crystal, for sustaining the link, and then dolling the power out as necessary. It all rests on your shoulders, and you cannot make mistakes when the lives of others are on the line.”

It’s more than Regis has ever thought of. There may come a point in his life where he may be responsible for pulling from the crystal, using the power for himself, then passing it on to those who should also wield it. He’ll need to remain in control while power is flowing in and out of him, spiking rapidly, and all the while the distractions of the world around him exist.

“Your Shield will call upon your magic, Regis,” his father explained purposely. “If he has need of it to protect you, he will draw from you, as you draw from the crystal. He will wield the power you allow him to, conjure magic, increase his own strength and fortitude, and that is merely the start. You can easily kill him if you do not remain in control.”

Regis’s heart lurches at the idea of being responsible for Clarus’s death, if only because of a lack of concentration.

“What’s it like?” Aulea asks when they finally manage to sneak a meal together. She looks at him earnestly with her big blue eyes, and Regis imagines what their son might look like one day. It lasts just a second, but he sees a tiny, pale, blue eyed, black hair baby. And he’s beautiful. “Handling all that magic?”

“Tiring,” Regis says seriously. “And frightening. It feels overwhelming sometimes, like the magic is going to rip me apart. And then other times, I feel like I should be using that power to rip others apart.”

Aulea makes a face. “That doses sound scary.”

Regis purses his lips in thought, then says, “I think it even scares my father. He didn’t want me to really have access to the crystal for a long time yet. But what happened earlier his week … I guess he thinks he has no other choice. He wants me to master warping, phasing, shielding, and all the other things that the King can do.”

He and Aulea are having lunch at a tiny little café a quarter mile away from the Citadel. It’s only the illusion of privacy that they have. The other patrons in the café are crownsguard in civilian clothes, and there are plenty of guards stationed outside. Regis has no doubt his father’s paranoia will die down soon enough, as he becomes more confident in Regis’s ability to protect himself, but for now, it’s suffocating.

Outside the café, through the thick window, Clarus is speaking with another guard. There’s a smile on his face, a look of familiarity or fondness, and it curdles Regis’s stomach.

Jealousy is a petty emotion, but Regis feels it all the same.

With cool fingers, Aulea touches the inside of his wrist and asks, “If you’re using the crystal now, even if you aren’t king, does that mean it’s already draining you? Your life force? Aging you prematurely?”

Trying to lighten the mood, Regis turns his head and askes, “Why? Do I look older?”

Aulea laughs a little. “No, you have the same ugly face as always.”

Softly, Regis says, “Of course it is. It’s the price paid to use the power of the crystal. But like all the kings that have come before me, and all the ones that’ll come after, it’s a price willingly paid to keep the peace, and protect the people we love.”

Aulea gives him a smile of affection, and Regis knows in that second, when he has a son of his own to protect, he’ll give his life to the crystal in the end, to keep him safe. No matter what.

Days later, as Regis seems to be getting better with his lessons in using the crystal, and the king seems more assured in him, his father mentions, “It’s one thing to access the power of the crystal when you’re standing next to it. It’s another to be separated by great distances.”

“How far? Regis asks interestedly.

His father risks a rare smile and says, “I’ve been speaking with Astra. She and I, along with the council, have agreed that Clarus showed lax response initially on the day of your attack. However, he conducted himself as every bit the Shield afterwards. Therefore, we’d like to press him to continue to grow and become the Shield you’ll need when you are king.”

Regis freezes. “You’re sending him away.”

A little tenderly, the king says, “Astra is accusing me of suffocating you. By now, the news of your attack has leaked out across Eos. We need to make a strong claim to your continued health and the strength of Insomnia. And I’d like you to feel what it is to access the crystal from such a distance, if ever the need arises for it.”

What is his father saying?

Bluntly, and with a hand clasped on his shoulder, his father asks, “Haven’t you been begging for a car?”

His father means, it eventually becomes clear, that Clarus is suited to the task of becoming Shield, but is in need of additional training. And Regis needs to be shown off to the people. It needs to be obvious that he’s alive and well. And what better way to continue to build their bond than sharing close quarters during a tour of Lucis.

Aulea nearly shrieks with jealously when she demands, “You’re going to Lestallum? I want to go to Lestallum!”

“Tell your parents to let you come,” Regis says with a shrug as he packs his bag thoughtfully. “But it’s not going to be a vacation, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m going to play politics, something you hate even though you’re so good at it, and Clarus is going to get additional training. And it may seem like it’s the two of us going, but there’s an itinerary, and a whole platoon of crownsguard who’ll be stationed around. We’re not sightseeing at Lestallum.”

Aulea doesn’t look put off for a second. “I don’t mind being surrounded by sweaty guys who just want to train all day long and be strong. I already live in the Citadel, don’t I?”

Regis confides a little, “There’s a chance I’ll get to go to Altissia, too, to see my mom. She’s already sent my father some pretty angry correspondence if he doesn’t approve the layover.”

“Do you think it’ll be too much of a security risk?” Aulea asks honestly. “Do you think I can talk my parents into something like this?”

In a lot of ways, Regis really needs the friendship and lightness that Aulea brings to his life. Going on a long trip without her isn’t something he’s looking forward to.

“Put your foot down,” Regis tells her, hardly able to believe that the fierce girl in front of him is willing to let herself be tied down by marriage to a monarch, even for the sake of the people of Insomnia.

In the end, Aulea’s parents don’t budge for an inch. There’s a whole squad of crownsguard who’ll be sprinkled along Regis’s path to Lestallum, but having the future king and his future queen together, simply poses too much of a danger. Aulea sulks about it in the weeks afterwards, desperately trying to change their mind. But by the time the morning of departure comes, Aulea is staying behind, and Regis is going.

The turnout is bigger than Regis expects. He has a whole line of people to go through, and promises of diplomacy and decorum to make, before he can even get to the car. He even has to field an accusation of being left behind by Cor Leonis, who is Yeolin Leonis’s son, and something of a fixture at the Citadel. For being so young at eleven, the kid is impossibly gifted with a sword, and has all the makings of a great warrior one day. Cor is the type to be irritated at being left behind for any reason, and he’s constantly ripe for adventure.

Regis likes to tease his father, once in a while, to be thankful for Regis’s calm personality. At least compared to the fiercely audacious and daring kind that Cor has.

“Come back to me safe,” Aulea says quietly to him when they’re hugging goodbye. “Because if anything happens to you, they’ll probably make me marry someone old and horrible.”

Regis laughs and it feels good.

“Go straight to Lestallum,” his father says sternly to him moments later when they’re the last to say goodbye to each other. “Hold to your itinerary.”

“I’ll have Clarus with me the whole way,” Regis reminds. His father shouldn’t worry so much. For better or worse, Regis has taken to the crystal like a fish to water, and he’s already competent with it. His connection with it will be the buffer of safety that his father has hoped for from the start. And that’s before even taking Clarus into consideration. “What kind of trouble could we get into?”

“Two young men free from the watchful eyes of their parents for the first time?” the king asks skeptically.

A smile fights its way onto Regis’s face. “Fair enough.”

“I’m your father,” he adds. “It’s my job to worry. You’ll understand some day.”

Regis gives his best promise to stay out of trouble, and then he climbs in his specially designed car, Clarus following after.

“You two okay back there?” the diver asks, turning to look at them. He’s got a clear tone to his voice, but an undeniable accent that marks him as not native to Insomnia. “Might think about settling in. It’s a long drive to our first designated checkpoint.”

“We’re good,” Regis says. He leans forward and asks, “What should we call you?”

Outside the car Aulea and Cor and others are waving.

“Name’s Cid, Highness,” the driver calls out to them, getting back in the right position and hitting the gas. The car zooms forward, a second right behind them, planning to escort them out of Insomnia and into the neighboring region.

Regis sneaks a grin to Clarus, who too looks amused with their driver. “Well, Cid, it’s nice to meet you. Now how about you turn on the radio, drop the Highness, and make this a much more enjoyable, long ride.”

In the rearview mirror Cid’s eyes smile at him, and Regis feels the pleasure of making a new friend.  



	3. Chapter Three

They’re probably an hour or two into Leide, passing through mile after mile of barren looking landscape, with little to keep their attention, when Regis presses out of his seat and across the divide between the front and back of the car. 

Leide isn’t nearly as hot as Lestallum will be, as the city is dangerously close to the impact crater that houses the disc of Cauthess. But it’s hot all the same, so they’ve got the top on the car down and the wind blowing through their hair.

Clarus seems to be sulking at the lack of hair on his own part, but Regis isn’t sure. Clarus has been hard to read since Regis’s assassination attempt.

But he’s sure vocal enough when Regis abandons his seatbelt and practically lunges into the front half of the car. Clarus’s voice rings out, barely above the sound of the wind, “Your Highness! Come back and put you seat belt on, please. That’s not safe.”

For once in his life, Regis doesn’t want to be safe. He doesn’t want to be careful or mindful. He wants to have fun. He wants to enjoy the little breath of freedom he’s getting. He wants to act his age.

And on that matter, Regis swings back to Clarus and points out, “You’re acting like you’re my father’s age, Clarus, and not five years older than me.”

Clarus doesn’t look amused when he says back, “I should look like the person your father is going to hang when we hit a pothole and you go flying out of the car to become roadkill.”

To add a little insult to injury, Regis climbs into the front seat just as Cid is taking a corner, and pointedly does not put his seatbelt on. Instead he turns to him and asks, “So Cid, do you have a last name?”

Cid cuts him a look out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t see how that’s important to someone of your station, Highness.”

Regis reminds, “We agreed to drop the titles, right? Outside of Insomnia, I just want to be normal, even if it’s just for a little bit. And I absolutely want to know your name, because I’m trying to work out how you, of all people, ended up my chauffer for this trip.”

The sun is beating down on them as Regis waits for his answer. Conversation is a good distraction from the strain he’s already feeling with his connection to the crystal. It’s distracting, more than anything else, but it’s there, and it feels like his skin is being stretched thin over his bones. Regis is curious to see how he’ll handle the crystal’s magic at a distance, the first time he tries to use it. It’s preferable to him that he figures it out long before they reach Lestallum. 

“Your father asked,” Cid says back smartly. 

“Come on,” Regis needles. “Clarus is curious too.”

Clarus says blandly, “This is my curious face, Highness.”

“Last name?” Regis asks.

“Sophiar,” Cid finally answers.

Regis sits back in his seat, a little impressed. “House Sophiar? You’re from House Sophiar?”

Cid’s face scrunches up a little. “Yeah. What of it?”

“Nothing.” Regis risks a look back at Clarus, who also looks surprised. 

There are, Regis can count off the top of his head, roughly a dozen noble houses in Insomnia. Some are more prominent than others, like House Amicitia, and House Leonis. But House Sophiar is definitely up there, too, even if they’re far more lowkey than the other bloodlines that are constantly vying for attention from the king, and recognition. 

House Sophiar is in the procurement business. Regis has had very, very little interaction with them over the years, but he knows that when his father requires something unique, something difficult to find, or something even a little scandalous, House Sophiar answers the call.

Only, Regis can’t recall hearing about Cid in the least. House Sophiar is headed by a very nice woman now, if a little severe in her dealings. Regis likes her, but there’s never been a hint of a Cid in the bloodline.

“Had a falling out with my parents,” Cid provides, when it becomes obvious Regis isn’t going to drop the subject. He says dryly, “I fall out easy with people.”

Cid’s story is something that’s drawn out slowly, like all the best tales, and takes three full day’s travel in Leide to get it.

Keeping a low profile means staying in seedy looking hotels, where crownsguards are lingering around in civilian clothes, eating at a chain of diners called The Crow’s Nest, pretending like they aren’t keeping an eye on the heir of Lucis. 

But it also means Regis can shut himself up in a room with Cid, who frankly doesn’t really protest sharing with Regis or Clarus, as opposed to sleeping in the car, and chip away at the shell that Cid carries around. 

Eventually, however, Regis gets it all.

Cid Sophiar, who’s twenty-seven years Regis’s senior, grew up in Insomnia. But, by Cid’s own admission, he’s always been somewhat of a misfit, never really belonging, always itching to be on the move. So when Cid is eighteen, more than old enough to make his own way, his older sister, who must be he head of House Sophiar, becomes apprenticed to their mother, and Cid leaves.

He makes his way through Eos doing everything from deamon hunting to errand boy work. He takes nothing from Insomnia when he leaves, and he builds up everything on the back of his own hard work. 

Cid is impressive to Regis in every way possible.

And on the third night in Leide, the last before they pass into a new region, Cid says over a black cup of coffee, “It wasn’t hard after a couple years to find out I’ve got an eye for fixing things. It sooths me, you know? Makes me feel something.”

Cid wants to open a garage of his own, someday. He’s got a wife, and a daughter who’s already married. He’s a grandfather, which is hard to believe until Cid reminds he’s forty-three. 

“They named her after me,” Cid says, practically bursting with pride. “Cindy. I reckon it’s a terrible thing to name your daughter after an old man, but there was no talking my Lena out of it.”

Regis’s father asked Cid to drive them to Lestallum because Cid has a reputation of being competent, fair, and trustworthy. It’s a reputation that reaches all the way back to Insomnia when Regis isn’t paying attention, and has nothing to do with his last name. 

“He wants a little muscle,” Cid reveals, “just in case.” 

Cid gets up from the chair he’s seated in, in their hotel room, and takes his cup of coffee to the window. He looks out into the blackness of the night.

“Muscle?”

“’Case we run into trouble,” Cid says easily enough. “Those crownsguard of yours are keeping their distance. And that Shield of yours is something else. But folks in Insomnia, being all proper and such, don’t know how to fight out in the wilderness. The King wants some insurance that his baby boy comes back.”

Clarus has stepped out to confer with some of the crownsguard, so in the privacy of the room, Regis abandons his own coffee and goes to stand net to Cid at the window. 

He asks, “What’s my father giving you in exchange for this? That garage?”

Cid nods, easy enough. “The money to do it. To do it right. To make sure that grandbaby of mine has a legacy, if that’s what she wants.”

Regis wonders, “Ever been to Lestallum before?”

“Couple of times.”

Regis has been plenty of places, but never Lestallum before. “What’s it like?”

Cid gives a languid chuckle. “The women there are something.”

Regis wonders what that means. 

There’s a laziness to the world outside of Insomnia, where everything moves at a faster pace, and there are schedules to keep. Regis still most certainly has an itinerary, and checkpoints to hit, but there’s plenty of wiggle room. There are different roads to choose from, places to visit and explore, and people to meet. 

Regis gets a little more tan with each passing day, and his tie loosens more and more until it disappears completely. 

Clarus starts to complain less about him crawling from the front to the backseat of the car, and vice versa, and starts to relax himself. Clarus smiles now when they’re on long stretches of road, and Regis sees him eyeing the Hunter’s boards of wanted bounties at all the rest stops. 

They’re just barely into Duscae when Regis suggests, “We should camp out tonight.”

Cid doesn’t look away from the road as he drives, but he does ask, “Is his Highness willingly giving up a soft mattress?”

This time, Regis doesn’t correct him at the use of title. Clarus continues to set a bad example by using it, and Cid means it in jest, anyway.

“I think we should get the full experience.” Regis is sitting in the front seat of the car, and turns back to Clarus. “What do you say? We’ve actually got camping gear in the back of the car. It can’t be that hard to set up a tent and get a fire going, right? The light will keep the daemons away, and even if it doesn’t, you’ll be there to valiantly throw yourself at them so I can make a clean get away. Sounds great, right?”

Clarus lets out a low laugh. 

“What about your entourage?” Cid asks, already sounding like he’s on board. “They’ll be expecting you at the net checkpoint.”

A little cheeky, Regis says, “I’ve been a proper, well behaved prince for nearly the entirety of my life.”

Clarus gives something that sounds suspiciously like a snort. “Is that what you were when you slid down the railing in the Citadel as a child?”

Regis tells Cid seriously, “That definitely doesn’t count. Now, as I was saying, I’ve never given anyone the slip. I’ve never caused trouble. As far as the crownsguard are concerned, I’m a walk in the park. But I’m not a total cad. We’ll send them a message saying we’ve been delayed a night, in a nicely vague and utterly untraceable way, and we’ll spend one night under the stars. What do you say?”

Cid gives him a real smile now, a full one. “I say you’d best get the map out. I think there are some safe campgrounds marked on it.”

The map is in the back, so Regis climbs his way into the seat next to Clarus. Their arms brush as Regis reaches for the map, and Regis tries not to dwell on it. Clarus has touched him even less since the assassination attempt, and Regis hates it. 

“Map, map,” Regis mumbles, reaching down towards the floorboard for the item in question. He opens it out in front of him, which blocks Cid from the view of the back seat. The edges flap in the wind and Regis takes the opportunity to tell Clarus in a low voice, “I need to test my connection to the crystal. I need to know what it feels like in combat, with the distance.”

Clarus gives a serious nod. 

“And,” Regis adds, turning his attention fully to the map, “I need to know what it feels like when you start drawing magic from me.”

Clarus’s head tilts in confusion. “What?”

Regis points out, “Your mother knows how to access my father’s magic, if they ever have to go into battle. You need to learn to do the same for me, and I need to figure out how to balance that strain. We’ll do that tonight.”

All of the sudden, Clarus looks a little horrified. Regis wants to tell him it’s important. He wants to say that his father is scared with how bold Niflheim has become, and who knows what the future is going to hold. He wants to ask Clarus to just trust him on the matter. 

Instead Regis follows along the road on the map, tracing their projected route, and announces to the entire car, “I think I’ve got a spot picked out.” He shows the area to Cid, then practically hangs himself out the window, eyes closing as the wind pushes at him.

He feels Clarus shuffle a little next to him, but his Shield doesn’t speak, and Regis lets the silence linger. 

Camp is a raised, flat rock that is embedded with minerals that glow blue under the moonlight. The car is parked a short distance away when they drag their supplies up to the top to make camp. Cid leads the way, unconcerned with the darkness around them, and Clarus carries most of their things from behind. Regis is sandwiched in the middle, dreading the coming hours. He can already feel the apprehension building.

It probably takes them an absurd amount of time to get the tent set up, but only because Cid sits back and laughs his way through it, declaring that city boys are the best entertainment he’s had in years. He does help them with the fire, though, with the kindling and safety procedures. Then Regis sparks the area with his magic, feels the pull at his navel, and they get warm.

Clarus walks the perimeter, checking for unwanted visitors, and Cid takes stock of their supplies. 

Regis sit in a chair near the fire, sword in hand, pressing magic from the crystal into it. His father can conjure up a dozen blades at will, all poised to defend. It’s almost instinct to him. It probably is, actually. And one day, Regis will have such control over the crystal. For now he has the one sword, gifted to him by his father before leaving Insomnia, the sword of a previous Lucian king. 

It’s not much to look at, not fancy, not made of mythril, not anything special just yet. But this is Regis’s sword, and he plans to carry it well. His father promises it will serve him well. And a little boost of magic, will certainly help that along.

Before long he can feel the sword thrumming in tandem with his heartbeat, just like his father had said it should. He focuses his mind, making the sword an extension of himself, and he doesn’t even realize both Cid and Clarus are watching him when he finally, successfully makes the sword vanish into the subpocket of space it’s meant to exist in. And then pulling hard, it reappears in his hand at his desire. It looks like a trail of stardust is attached to the sword as he swooshes into his hand, pretty and astral, and just like his father.

“I’ll be damned,” Cid says with a laugh.“No doubt now you’ve got the royal blood in you.”

Clarus says, a little affronted, “There’s never been any doubt.” He draws his steps closer to Regis, looking at the sword in a fascinated way. “You did it just like the king.”

Sure, in theory. What Clarus doesn’t know is that Regis already feels like he’s run a mile. It’s all about endurance, of course. His father was very clear about this from the start. The more he uses the crystal, the easier it will be to sustain its magic over time. Which is why the irony is that the more he uses the crystal, the fast it burns through his life force.

But for right now he’s young, and at the pinnacle of health, and Lucian men are built for purpose, but certainly not longevity. 

Regis ignores the tiredness already pulsing through him. 

Again and again he makes the blade disappear, and then reappear, until the motion is smooth and flawless, and he trusts that he can make it happen if sudden conflict calls for it.

“Impressive,” Clarus remarks, a bit of pride in his voice.

Regis is just getting started.

Cid sits back, probably the most competent of the three of them as far as cooking goes, and starts preparations for an easy meal. And Regis begins to dig through the elemental magic his father has taught him. Fire comes first, easy and the least draining, but then also ice, and thunder. 

“I need you to spar with me,” Regis tells Clarus. Regis has had the basic fundamentals of combat taught to him from a young age. He’s no warrior, but he thinks he can hold his own for a while against a moderate opponent. Kings aren’t meant to do anything but defend themselves, naturally, until their Shields are in a position to take over. But all kings must know the essentials. Regis finds no real pleasure in combat, not like Clarus must, but he’s completed his lessons.

“Are you sure?” Clarus asks, hefting up his own blade. It’s a mammoth thing, bigger and more impressive than Regis’s own sword. But Clarus is bigger than Regis, so it fits. 

“I need a challenge,” Regis decides, “and I trust you not to lop my head off on accident.”

Clarus grins. “Never, your Highness.”

Clarus is holding back when they spar, but if he weren’t, Regis might already be dead. Claus is nimble for his size, and he treats his sword like a longer arm. He swings wide but true, and this allows Regis is practice warping out of danger, side stepping a hit with a phase, and bringing up a shield. 

He’s practically wasted by the time Cid hollers at them to come eat. It’s hard to get a full breath, and the world is tilting dangerous from left to right. He feels Clarus’s eyes on him, but his Shield doesn’t comment as he ambles towards the plate Cid is holding out for him. 

They make small talk that comes so easily it’s almost like they’re all friends. Maybe they are and Regis is just now realizing it. 

Regis shares with them the last sweet treats of his mother’s most recent package to him, and when Clarus bites into a world famous Altissian pastry, he looks as if he’s gone to the afterlife. Regis has half a mind to feed him Regis’s own share just to keep that look on his face.

Cid says, “I’ve been looking at that car of yours—noticed it still ain’t got a name—and I was thinking, I could make some easy upgrades to it.”

Clarus asks, “Cars are supposed to have names?”

Cid gives them a lecture no less than twenty minutes long on why cars MUST have names. 

Then jokingly, Regis poses, “If you can make her fly, I’ll personally buy you the garage of your dreams.” A flying car. Really. How absurd.

He’s going to call her the Regalia.

Cid says, “I want to build it, not buy it.”

Cid has plans, and he shares them with him. He’s already practically got a spot picked out for where he’s going to build his garage, but not just that, either. He wants to get a diner attached, and a store, and he wants his garage to be the draw for people miles around. He wants it to be a safe haven for people who need a place to stay for the night, or just a quick refuel station for those passing by.

Dinner is long gone by the time Regis says to Clarus, “Guess it’s time to find out what it feels like when you use my magic.”

Apprehensively, Clarus replies, “I think you’re already tired enough, Highness. How about we turn in for the night?”

Stubbornly, Regis says, “You’re my sworn Shield. I trust you with my life, and the crystal can feel the bond between us. My father said it should be easiest for the people I trust to use my magic, when I give them permission. Let’s just do this now, and we’ll work on it more the next time we camp.”

“The next time,” Clarus repeats, getting to his feet. “You’ll be lucky if your father doesn’t order you back to Insomnia for this detour.”

Regis flashes him a smile. “Doubtful.” This is more than a diplomatic trip of goodwill. Maybe Clarus doesn’t know that, but Regis certainly does.

“Okay, here we go,” Clarus says when they’re a dozen or so paces apart. 

Regis coaches, “We’ll start small. Fire is always the easiest.”

Regis feels it the second Clarus starts to pull from him. It’s like being punched in the gut, and Regis staggers. It’s too much. It’s absolutely too much. The distancebetween Regis and the crystal, the way he’s already exerted himself, Clarus’s presence digging into his reserves so foreign and unfamiliar. It’s definitely too much, and as the sky lights bright with fire. Then Regis is on his back, staring up at the stars.

It’s a too familiar position, as of late.

“Highness!”

Cid calls out, “You still breathing?”

“Barely,” Regis admits, and Clarus comes into view, panicked. 

“We’re stopping for the night,” Clarus says. He offers a hand down to Regis. “It’s time for bed.”

Regis reaches up for the warm hand, letting their fingers press together in comfort. Magic tingles between them, and Regis says, “You might be right.” 

Clarus gets him up on his feet and holds still next to him until Regis gives the okay that he isn’t going to go toppling back down. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Clarus says predictably, settling in next to the fire, and Regis doesn’t fight him on it. He’s bone weary like he’s never felt before, and he worries he’s pushed himself too far. It’s too easy to climb into the tent with Cid, curl into his corner, and sleep like the dead.

Regis has weird dreams. He always has. He dreams of shadow figures, tombs of old kings, and a wall of light. They’re not prophetic, Regis isn’t the Oracle. He has no Oracle blood in his line at all. But the dreams are unsettling with how they make him feel. And he wakes up in the same mood.

He wakes early. Cid is still sleeping next to him, snoring lightly, using his jacket as a pillow. He doesn’t so much as twitch when Regis sits up, or when Regis moves towards the flap in the tent.

The sun isn’t up yet, but it’s starting to peek over the mountains in the distance. It sets a somber mood as Regis slides his feet into his shoes and stands outside the tent completely. Clarus is seated at the fire, poking at it with a long stick. 

“Hi,” Regis offers, voice a little hoarse from sleep. “Did you stay up all night?”

Clarus nods. “I wanted to make sure none of the animals in the area were drawn to our fire.”

Regis eases himself down in the seat next to Clarus, taking in the warmth of the fire.

Clarus surprises him by asking, “What did it feel like? When I was trying to use your magic?”

“You tell me,” Regis teases back a little.

From the side, Clarus’s profile in the firelight makes him look impossibly young, much younger than his twenty-five years. 

“It was like trying to hold water in my fingers.”

Regis’s eyebrows climb high on his face. “Really?”

Clarus nods seriously. “It was difficult. The magic felt unsteady. And I was worried it might hurt you. I felt your magic—the crystal’s magic, and it was like tasting true power for the first time in my life. I wanted it pull it out of you, all of it, and that scared me.”

There’s a waver in Clarus’s voice that reeks of honesty. 

“It gets easier,” Regis says in return. “My father said it’s okay to be scared in the beginning. It’s okay to make mistakes with the magic.Because there will come a time when you can take what I offer you, and we’ll have a perfect balance and harmony complimentary to the push and pull of magic.”

Clarus wonders, “What did it feel like to you?”

“Unsteady,” Regis ends up answering. “Volatile. The magic always feels that way to me now, because I’m still learning to harness it properly. But trying to give you access to it through me, felt like I was walking a tightrope, and someone was shaking it terribly.”

Clarus makes a sound of agreement. 

“You know,” Regis continues on, “I’ve seen my father and your mother spar together. I’ve seen them work in tandem, with the magic of the crystal, and they’re a perfect team. I’ve even seen my father extend his grip on the magic out to others. It seems like a crazy thing, from the way that just you felt. But we’ll get there. I’ll be king someday, and you’ll be the King’s Shield, and we’ll master the power of the crystal.”

In the distance, an animal howls. Regis thinks of how there are no wild animals left in Insomnia. There are birds, and cats, and smaller animals that are pets, but the only time Regis truly sees the beauty of wildlife, is when he leaves the city.

“Highness,” Clarus starts.

Regis interrupts and says, “I think we’re past that, don’t you? It’s just us out here. It’s just Regis and Clarus. How about we go by those names?”

“My mother—”

“Isn’t out here,” Regis reminds. “Neither is my father, or anyone else who’ll be prone to judgmental looks.”

“I …”

“Try I out, Regis urges. “I’ve got to have someone other than Aulea and my father using my actual name.”

It looks like it’s something of a burden for Clarus to finally say it, but he eventually gets out, “Regis.”

Regis chuckles out, “I bet that didn’t even hurt.”

The fire crackles and Regis leans towards it. He puts his hands out to soak in the warmth, feeling his muscles ache still from the strain on his body the previous day. He leans forward so much that the pendant slips out from underneath his shirt, and it sways in the space between Regis and the fire.

“Highness.”

Regis give shim a sharp look.

Clarus corrects, “Regis. I …”

It’s not like Clarus to be short on words. Clarus is deliberate when he talks, reserved even, but never at a loss for what to say.

Regis proposes, “We should do this more often. When we go back to Insomnia, it’ll probably be for some time.” Regis is sixteen now. The next four or five years are going to be the final push to get him to where he needs to be in terms of his future as king. Lucian kings traditional take the throne young. There’s nothing to say that Regis’s father won’t continue to rule for the next twenty or thirty years. But weariness is a heavy thing, and each day the King looks a bit more too strained. 

Regis’s father has said nothing, but Regis has started to sense where the monarchy is going. 

Regis’s father took the throne at twenty-five. Regis is only nine years from there. 

“This is nice,” Regis comments. “Getting to just slow down a little more, and camp out in the wild, it’s a good feeling.”

Clarus doesn’t disagree, but he does say, “I’m sure this would make your father very uneasy.”

Regis doesn’t doubt that. “His idea of letting me camp out would probably be a whole platoon of crowndsguard prowling about.”

“It’s only because he worries.”

“I’m not a child,” Regis reminds. He’s old enough to know what the feeling is when he looks at Clarus. 

“No,” Clarus agrees. “You’re most certainly not a child.” His words make Regis smother down a blush. “But you’re also his only child, his heir, and the only hope of a peaceful future Insomnia has. I think when you have a son, you’ll feel the same way.”

That is a long way off. A very long one.

They sit together in ease for some time more before Clarus takes a shuddering breath and says, “I want to apologize to you. I couldn’t find the right moment before, but now seems … apt.”

“Apologize for what?”

“For the Lunar celebration.” Clarus looks flush with shame. “I let you down. I let my mother down. I let Insomnia down. I didn’t catch the threat fast enough, and you nearly paid for it with your life. I’m ashamed of myself.”

“You’re ashamed you’re not psychic?” Regis scoffs. “That man who tried to kill me had perfect papers for getting into Insomnia. He raised no red flags even to people who are trained to catch these things. And how exactly are you responsible for the guard who was ambushed, his weapon stolen, and then all the other crownsguard who didn’t put him down in an instance.”

“I saw the commotion,” Clarus balks. “I saw the reach for the gun, and I was stunned. I never believed you were a target, not any more so than your father. Because I ignorantly believed you were safe that day, and that no one would dare make such an open, bold move, you nearly paid for it with your life. You could have died. If it wasn’t for the luck of the gods, you would have.”

Regis’s fingers catch the swinging pendant. “I’d say it’s more your luck, than anything else.”

Clarus grounds out, “I should have reacted faster. I should have made for you the second I realized what was happening, instead of standing there like a stunned child. I didn’t reach you until you were already on the ground.”

For Regis, there is no blame for Clarus here. “If you’d gotten to me faster, you could have knocked me off balance, and the bullet could have hit me, instead of the mythril.”

Clarus’s chin nearly touches his chest. “I’m sorry, your Highness. I’m sorry, Regis.”

“Well, I certainly don’t accept your apology.” Regis gets up to stretch, hands going up to the sky. When he looks back to Clarus, the man is watching him with such intensity it’s practically nerve wracking. 

“You don’t …”

“You did the best you could in a bad situation,” Regis shrugs out. “You’re only human. I think you forget that. Your mother isn’t the amazing Shield she is today by luck alone. She’s had a long time to hone her skills. That’s why you’re with me on this trip to Lestallum. It takes time and practice to be as talented as your mother is, and you will get there. So I don’t accept your apology for the way you handled things in your first ever moment of pressure. I survived, that’s all that matters, and how you acted after that shot went off, is all that I care about.”

Clarus gets up then, too, reaching out like he’s done before in the past, for the pendant. 

Regis’s breath catches in his lungs.

“If anything happened to you,” Clarus barely manages.

“When we’re old and gray,” Regis says, “we’re going to laugh about this. When we both have sons, I will still tease you over this. But we will get to that point. You will be a great Shield, and I hope I’m a great King.”

“You will be,” Clarus says, practically tight lipped. “I know it.”

Regis gives an appreciative look. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Something happens in the moment shared between them, even if Regis doesn’t want to know what it is. The world is black around them, dulled out into nothing, making them the center of the universe. And the fire roars to their side, flames licking away at the space between earth and heaven.

Clarus looks at him with too bold, shrewd eyes, the kind that pierce right into Regis’s soul. And then slowly, but effortlessly, his hand slides up the chain the pendant is attached to, to the skin of Regis’s neck. His fingers brush the cool flesh there, the pads of his fingers worn rough already, and Regis is practically startled by the thrum of magic between the two of them. 

It’s flowing from the crystal to Regis, and Regis to Clarus, unbroken and unbridled, like the current in a river, and Regis wants to fold into the sensation. 

This man, Regis contemplates, this man is worthy to stand at his side. This man is the right choice to stand there, and embarrassingly enough, Regis has never been so in love with someone.

“Regis,” Clarus breathes out, seemingly caught in the same spell. 

Regis is not impulsive. Any hint of it was pressed out of him long ago. He’s made for kingship, and kings cannot be impulsive, at least not the good ones.But Regis is also lovedrunk, a sensation only described before to him, and never personally experienced.

It’s why he levels himself up to his tiptoes, because Clarus is practically a head taller, and lets his mouth brush against another that is very much willing.

It’s a warm, delicate kiss, the kind made from sheer determination, and not confidence. Regis kisses up into Clarus’s mouth with desire, and foolishness, and the nativity of his age. But it’s good, it’s so good,

Clarus’s hand slides along the side of his neck, to anchor more purposefully at the back of it, and he hold Regis close, angling them to kiss deeper, and with more passion, and to make this the best first kiss in the history of first kisses.

Regis groans practically obscenely at the first slip on tongue from Clarus, swiping across his now wet lips. 

Then Clarus jerks away, like he’s just remembered himself, like he’s mortified, and he nearly puts the whole of Cleigne between them. 

“You … I …” Clarus sputters, looking well kissed. 

Regis isn’t much better, stunned at the move he’s made, unsure where they go from here.

“I’m sorry,” Clarus says in a profuse manner, bending at the waist to bow deeply. He braces his hands on his knees. “I’m so deeply sorry, Highness. That was uncalled for, and inappropriate. I have no justification for what just happened, but I beg your forgiveness.”

Regis feels the phantom sensation of Clarus’s lips against his own. “I’m the one who kissed you,” he says a bit numbly.

It hardly sounds like Clarus is even talking to Regis anymore, as he rushes out, “I’ve lost my mind. I’m so sorry. You’re just a child. This is taking advantage of a child.”

Insulted, Regis said firmly, his voice rising, “I’m not a child.” He’s sixteen. He’s old enough to be king in a moment’s notice. He’s practically been raising himself for the better part of five or six years. He’s opinionated and independent. He knows what he wants, and can usually finagle a way into getting it. Regis doesn’t stumble his way into situations. He isn’t unthinking or stupid. 

“I kissed you, and I did it because I wanted to.” Regis holds his breath.

“I’m your Shield,” Clarus returns, standing like an unmovable mountain now. “There can’t be this kind of confusion between us. I can’t let myself …”

Regis wants to laugh. Is Clarus so utterly blind? Doesn’t he know how often Clarus’s mother spends the night in Regis’s father’s bed? Doesn’t he know how often Kings and Shields fall in with each other? More often than not.

“You don’t want me?” Regis asks, suddenly felled by the question.He’s never stopped to consider that maybe this is the reason. Maybe Clarus doesn’t actually feel anything of the sort towards him. The last kind of person Regis will be, is someone who forces another.

“Gods,” Clarus seems to lament. “I desire you. I desire you too much, in the way that a man should not desire a child.”

Again, Regis is not a child. There is only five year difference between them. And it’s more insulting that Clarus seems him as such, than anything else. No one wants to be seen as a child, by the person they covet. 

Regis doesn’t know how to respond to what Clarus has said.

“Please, your Highness,” Clarus begs. “You’re so young, and our friendship is so fragile. We can’t do this.”

Slowly, but heavily, Regis sits back down in his chair. He looks into the fire. It’s his age, then? Clarus comes back and back to his age. He’s simply too young. In some parts of Eos, there’s an age of consent. In Insomnia, marriages are so commonly arranged, even among the regular citizens, that an age of consent is hardly a matter of topic. But for some people, particularly among the general population, there’s a stigma attached to romantic relationships between younger people. Some great Houses share he sentiment. 

Maybe that’s what this is. 

“This,” Clarus says, still a little shakily, “can never happen again.”

Regis feels resolved. He’s not one to push. He knows when he’s beaten. So he turns to Clarus, who’s now impossibly higher than him, still on his feet, and requests, “Please forgive me, Clarus. I was out of line. I took a misstep. Please don’t mention this to anyone else. We’ll put it from our minds completely, and let that be that.”

Except racing through Regis’s mind is that Clarus most certainly kissed him back. This was no one-sided kiss. 

Clarus gives him an impossible look and asks, “Is this why you forced the king’s hand with my assignment?”

“What’s that mean?” Regis is confused. “I didn’t make him send you with me here. I didn’t ask.”

The sun peeks over the ridge in the back for the first time, seconds ticking by into minutes. The light streams down on the campsite behind Clarus, and makes him look alike an avenging god. 

“They wanted to remove me from your side,” Clarus specifies. “After you were nearly assassinated. My mother said I was going to lose my post. But then word came down from the king directly, uncompromising to the council like it almost never is. Your father said I was to stay at your side. My mother said it’s because you forced his hand.”

Regis forces himself to look away. “You’re asking if what just happened, is the reason I refused to be parted from you.”

Clarus gives a low noise.

From inside the tent, Cid coughs. It’s the kind of cough one gives when waking up in the morning. It’s evidence that they won’t have privacy in only a minute or two more.

“I told my father that you’re my Shield.” Regis can’t look at Clarus now, afraid to lose his resolve. “I told him it’s not just that you were assigned to me. It’s not that at all, because I didn’t have to accept your mother’s choice. But I said you’re the one I trust. You’re the one I believe in. So you’re the one I choose. This is a King choosing his Shield, and nothing else. Does that answer your question?”

Faintly, Clarus answers, “Yes, your Highness.”

Cid ambles his way out into the open space, yawning loudly. He comments, “You boys are up early.”

Only then does Regis look to Clarus, determined to have the man know that he speaks the truth. This has nothing to do with the romantic feelings he harbors for the older man. But it does have everything to do with the trust built up between them. 

Clarus looks back at him with understanding, and Regis is momentarily relieved.

But then there’s still desire in his gaze, still the kind of hunger that has led them into the situation they just experienced. 

Clarus wants him back, of this Regis is absolutely sure. But where they go from here, is an utter mystery. 


	4. Chapter Four

To everyone’s credit, no one talks about the kiss. 

Well, Regis is absolutely certain that Cid never saw the kiss, but if he notices anything out of the ordinary between the future king and his protector, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, the three of them load up the car, a task less fun than taking everything out, and get on with their trip. Regis makes one, incredibly awkward call to the crownsguard, assures them he’s on his way, and then turns to ask his companions, “Have either of you ever ridden a chocobo?”

Cid rolls his eyes, mumbling something about youth, and Clarus looks decidedly uninterested. 

But Regis is desperate to get his mind off a kiss that he knows shouldn’t have happened, and the future implications of it. 

“I’ve been looking at the map,” Regis says as they’re climbing into the car to leave. “There’s a chocobo outpost not that far from here, in between the Nebulnwood and Malacchi Hills. It would be a teeny little detour. The smallest of small.”

Clarus argues back, “We’d have to go the long way around the Disc of Cauthess. We’d add days, if not a week onto our journey.”

“You have someone waiting for you back in Insomnia?” Regis asks. He doesn’t mean for it to come out so petty and almost vindictive, and his own tone surprises him.

“Only responsibility,” Clarus responds. “The same as you.”

A moment more and logic creeps up on Regis. It’s not fair to keep Cid out and away from his family longer than promised. Regis isn’t six, either. He doesn’t need to go see the chocobos.

“On to Lestallum, then,” Regis says, more like a command. He climbs in the seat next to Cid, and tells himself to keep quiet. His mouth has definitely gotten him into enough trouble already.

So they don’t go to the chocobos, they don’t go south, and Regis returns to proper form. They don’t camp out again, Regis keeps to his itinerary, and with the passing days, so too goes the embarrassment.

In the three days it takes to reach Lestallum, Regis and Clarus rebuild their friendship from the ground up, and they slowly claw their way back to how thing were.

It isn’t a perfect situation, and sometimes when Regis lays awake at night all he can feel is the sensation of Clarus’s mouth against his own, but it’s better than the alternative. 

It’s fitting that they reach Lestallum at night. They’re so close to the disc it’s nearly unbearably hot, especially since it’s summer now. Regis and his companions are sweaty, and smell like they’re in desperate need of a bath, but all of their burdens fall to the wayside when they clear the final tunnel and Lestallum comes into view. 

Altissia is the most beautiful city Regis has ever seen, but Lestallum at night is utterly breathtaking. 

The lights of the city, lit by the power plant, sparkle like multicolored diamonds. Cid drives them ever closer and Regis can’t help pulling himself up in the car to a near standing position. The wind batters him relentless, but Regis ignores it all. Lestallum is glorious, shining in the dark like hope, and Regis finds his breath stolen by the beauty of this.

Fingers curl around the back of his belt and Regis laughs a little when he hears Clarus call out to him, “Be careful!”

For once in his life, Regis doesn’t care about being careful. He only cares about the lifeblood of the moment. With Clarus there to anchor him, Regis puts his arms out and he’s flying. It feels amazing.

The crownsguard are waiting for them when they pull into the main parking area, Cid sliding the car expertly backwards until they’re tucked away. Regis palms down his hair, tucking away the last of his free spirit, and then he exits the car to be the prince he is.

They retire to the hotel, Regis finding himself placed away in his own for the first time since leaving Insomnia. It worries him how lonely it feels.

He bathes, changes, and then joins his companions and elite members of the crownsguard for dinner. 

It’s a bittersweet moment, because Regis knows by morning, things won’t be the same as they have been. Cid will leave to go home to his family. Clarus will remain in Lestallum, but spend most of his time training with a family friend. And Regis? Regis will play the game of goodwill and politics.

“Thank you,” Regis says when the moment does come. He reaches out to shake Cid’s hand. They’re in the hallway that leads to the main staircase, and then down to the first floor. Other guests are shuffling by, and there’s one guard posted some distance away, but it’s a fairly private moment. “Thank you for everything, Cid.”

“Just doing my job,” Cid said a little snappishly, but there’s an underline of kindness. 

Regis promises, “My father is a man of his word. You’ll have your funds for your garage. I’ve already sent word to him that I arrived safely. He’s indebted to you.”

Cid sizes him up for a second, then says, “You’re a good kid, Reggie.”

A laugh bursts out of Regis. “Reggie?”

“Don’t want me calling you Highness, right?” Regis shakes his head. “Then Reggie it is. If I’m calling you Regis, I’m gonna want to bow to you.”

“I wish you all the best luck,” Regis says, heartfelt.

“Gonna get myself settled down,” Cid says, rocking back on the balls of his feet. “Get the garage up and running. But if you need me, just holler.”

Again, Regis says, “Thank you, Cid.”

Cid is gone by the end of breakfast, and Regis is sad to see him go. Cid is blunt and crash. He’s a guy who pulls no punches, and Regis likes that. Too many people are too eager to tell Regis what they think he wants to hear. Not Cid.

“You okay?” Clarus asks him, when he notices Regis watching Cid negotiate with a stranger for a ride out of town. 

“Fine,” Regis assures. He’s certain Clarus doesn’t believe him.

Their journey to Lestallum is most certainly not one of sightseeing. So soon enough Clarus ambles off to start his training, and once more Regis is surrounded by the bland faces of the crownsguard. The men and women sworn to protect him don’t smile. They don’t joke with him. They’re the pinnacle of professionalism, and they’re wretchedly boring.

Regis tours the city openly, greeting the citizens, and answering their questions about Insomnia. He gives speeches, each one more nerve-wracking than the last, at least until the fear of being attacked again starts to pass.

Lestallum is governed by an elected panel of representatives, all of them women, and most of them with stakes in the power plant. With them, Regis builds a friendly repertoire, negotiating trade options for the two very different regions. Regis does his best to endear himself to them, and even braves the power plant itself, suiting up in a protective jumpsuit to do so.

Months start to pass, and Regis loses himself in the almost carefree life of Lestallum.

He writes to his father, assuring that all is well, and that he’s making an impact on the region that previously has had very little dealings with Insomnia. 

Then he writes to his mother and assures her of his health. He says he wants to come and see her, and that he misses her. But the truth is, he hasn’t missed her in some time. Not since he was a child. 

Every morning Regis wakes and has breakfast with his retainers. Clarus is hardly ever present. And neither doe Regis see him during the day. Regis has political and social duties to attend to, and Clarus has his training. But then at night, Clarus comes back to the hotel, and together, sometimes just the two of them, they have dinner.

Clarus is thriving. Regis can see it so easily. He’s smiling more often, looking healthier, and he’s more free with Regis. He’ll talk without being prompted to, is more bold and more brave, and is more generous with his touch again. For a while, Regis worried Clarus would never touch him again. Now Clarus presses a hand to his shoulder in solidarity, or gives him the slightest of nudges. 

And on the days when Regis trains, continuing to build his tolerance with the crystal, determined the master it, especially over the long distance, he often falls into bed completely clothed at night with exhaustion. Clarus is the one who removes his shoes, and helps wrestle him out of his shirts, and pulls his blankets over him. Clarus’s fingers brush the fringe on his forehead.

Most of all, Clarus is bulking up. He’s always going to be more slight than not. He’s always going to be a little too tall and a little too sinewy, at least compared to some of the other powerhouses of strength in his family. But there’s far more muscle development visible now, and Clarus is starting to widen out. He’s growing out his hair, too. It’s not long by any means, but it’s also not buzzed close to the head anymore, either. The blond of his youth is completely gone and he’s a fully brunet now, but it wholly suits him. 

Regis’s crush is not fading, unfortunately. But like the crystal, he’s learning to manage it.

He’s also making new friends. From the women who work at the power plant, to the men in their stalls at the market who dote on him and give him free fruit, Regis learns their names, and forms relationships with them.He starts to find himself invited over to dinner with some of them, and he meets their children. Regis makes friends his own age, too, the kind that remind him the crownsguard look away once in a while. This is when they help Regis be the teenager he is, if only for a moment or two.

One of them, the son of a local ramen proprietor, tells Regis on his singular day off, the day that he usually uses to spend daydreaming at the overlook with ice cream in hand and thoughts about the disc of Cauthess in his mind, “You’ve got to meet this new kid in town. He’s rad.”

Regis meets Weskham Armaugh that very afternoon. 

Weskham is older than Regis, though only by a couple of years, and Regis can tell right away he’s what Cid might call a wilderness boy. Weskham has pistols strapped to his sides casually, and has his hair braided tightly to his skull.He absolutely reeks of what the kids in Lestallum would definitely classify as cool.

“So you’re the prince,” Weskham says, looking him up and down.

Regis asks, “Ever been to Insomnia?”

Weskham shakes his head. “I’ve been plenty of places, but not Insomnia.”

Weskham grew up traveling around Eos with his parents, Regis learns. Weskham’s parents are quite famous for cataloguing all the difference species of animals, and writing books on many of them. But Weskham?

“I like eating them,” Weskham laughs, “more than learning about them.”

Weskham has plans to be a great cook one day, to open his own restaurant and settle down somewhere beautiful to live an easy, good life.

“Somewhere beautiful?” Regis asks when he hears that. “You should visit Altissia. It’s the most beautiful city in all of Eos.”

“That’s the end goal,” Weskham promises.

It’s the start of a friendship that comes easily. Weskham, like Cid, doesn’t treat Regis like the prince he is. There’s still plenty of respect to be had, but Weskham is more interested in knowing Regis as a person, than Insomnia’s heir, Prince Regis.”

Weskham is in Lestallum because his parents are. His parents are writing a new book specifically on the creatures indigenous to the area around Lestallum, and while they’ve put out for a new assistant, they’ve yet to hire one they find acceptable. Weskham is just helping out for the time being.

“I’m not sticking around forever,” Weskham says. “What nineteen year old wants to be with their parents all day long?”

Regis doesn’t know. But as someone who’s grown up with his father having to find the time for him, it’s sort of a nice notion. 

Weskham isn’t a great cook yet, however, so the best part of their friendship that that Regis is an honored dignitary in Lestallum, so he can commandeer the hotel kitchen outside of peek hours for Weskham to practice. Some of what Weskham makes is so nauseating that Regis threatens to sick up on his friend. But other times, Weskham is showing all the talent in the world, and Regis can’t get enough.

“This is good, “Clarus praises when he has the time to sample Weskham’s cooking.

Weskham makes simple food, not like the fancy, overdone dishes that Regis has grown up eating. And his food tastes better because of is simplicity. 

“Okay, it’s settled,” Regis declares. “You have to come to Insomnia and cook for me there.”

Weskham teases, “That’s the prince’s bidding?”

Clarus, who’s finding more time for the three of them to be together as the months pass, comments, “Regis is very good at getting what he wants. It could be that blue blood, but something tells me it’s just Regis being Regis.”

Regis scoffs. “Clarus Amictia, you grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth. Don’t pretend people haven’t been giving you exactly what you desire since you were old enough to ask for it.”

Clarus looks at him oddly and says, “Some things desired are not to be given.”

It’s the first hint in three months, nearly four, that either of them have acknowledged the moment of weakness from before. There are lingering looks in brief moments, and slips of tongue in words better left unsaid. But nothing direct is said. It’s frustrating.

Regis still remembers the kiss, remembers the way Clarus felt, pulling him closer and more firmly.

Regis wonders, does Clarus remember he way he tastes?

Oblivious to it all, Weskham says, “Insomnia probably has all kinds of unique animals that taste like nothing I’ve ever sampled before.”

Regis wonders, “Why haven’t you come before? You could get an educational visa, or your parents might get a research provision.”

Weskham’s dark eyes grow dimmer, and between the three of them, he says, “Only a fool doesn’t see what’s on the horizon for Insomnia. What parent takes their child into that?”

Regis has no answer.

Five months after departing Insomnia, Clarus declares his training is finished. He could stay, he says, but he’s looking forward to reuniting with his mother and proving how much he’s grown to her. They’ve stayed longer in Lestallum than originally predicted, so there’s no time to go to Altissia, but it’s just as well. 

Regis writes to his father, tells him he’s coming home, and he tries not to feel like he’s trading freedom for a gilded cage. Insomnia should not feel like a burden. 

“Are you ready?” Clarus asks him when their bags are packed and half the crownsguard have gone ahead to establish planned checkpoints.Regis thinks it’s all a bit pointless now. He’s been in Lestallum, openly so, for over four months. But he doesn’t fight the routine, the standard procedure, or the expectation that he cooperate. 

“To go home?” Regis asks. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Clarus knows him too well now.

Regis, desperate to cling to Lestallum for just a bit longer, asks, “Want to go grab some spiced coffee? Weskham’s been telling me about this new place that opened up. Sounds good.”

Clarus, hair down to his chin now, gives a nod, and in a way that they’ve never done before, the both of them slip out the back entrance to the hotel. They leave the crownsguard none the wiser, and walk the streets of Lestallum accompanied for the first time. 

It’s fitting that they slide into a corner table in the tiny little café just as night falls on the city. It’s the last night they’ll spend in Lestallum for who knows how long, and Regis likes the way it all plays out. 

The smell of spice is heavy in the air when their coffee is delivered to them. People interrupt them for the first couple minutes, stopping by to say hi to Regis, to invite him out for lunches and inquire about his health. But eventually the attention starts to tapper off, and then it’s just Clarus and Regis. 

“You’re popular,” Clarus says, pleasure showing on his face when he takes his first sip of coffee. 

“I’m nice,” Regis responds.

Clarus shakes his head. “No, there’s something about you. There always has been. You draw people to you, you make them want to like you without knowing why. Then they actually spend time around you, and they figure out why.”

Regis lifts his own cup up, breathing in deep the smell. When he tastes it finally, it’s what he imagine Lestallum should taste like. It’s an exotic taste, with a bit of a kick, and excitement. 

“Careful,” Regis warns, “that’ll to my head.”

With a chuckle, Clarus says, “Not the worst thing that could happen, my prince.”

The touch of possessiveness in his tone gives Regis pause.

There’s been something pulling at him, demanding answers, and now seems the right time to press it as an issue. Regis has asked before, and now he’ll ask again.

“Clarus,” he says after some time has passed. Their table by the window gifts them a premier view of Lestallum’s food district spread out before them.It’s crowded, absolutely packed, and there’s a steady flow to the traffic that’s mesmerizing. 

Clarus interrupts, openly amused, “And there go the crownsguard.”

Regis lets himself be distracted. He can see the men in black weaving through the crowd deliberately, on the hunt for him. They’ve noticed he’s missing from the hotel. It’ll be some time before they raise any kind of public alarm, but Regis also isn’t hiding. A couple dozen people have seen him in the café, and any one of them might go out now and tell the crownsguard where he is. Regis has never been one to hide.

“I’m surprised,” Regis comments, “that you both agreed to come out with me, without them, and that you aren’t attempting to lecture me on my safety.” Now Regis gives him a teasing look. “Could it be that Clarus Amicitia thinks that he’s strong enough to act as the Shield of the future kind of Lucis?”

Regis means it as a tease, but all of the sudden Clarus is puffing up a little, sitting up straighter, making himself look bigger. 

“You haven’t left the city,” Clarus says finally. “You aren’t doing anything dangerous, and you’re with me. Let the crownsguard sweat it out a little. It serves them right for letting you out of their sight.”

Regis points out, “They had no reason to suspect I’d give them he slip. I never do.”

Clarus gives him a pointed look. “That’s no excuse. So like I said, let them sweat.”

“And let us enjoy our coffee?”

Clarus raises his cup for a toast, and Regis meets him halfway. 

They drink their coffee in peace for some time, enjoying the company of each other, no words necessary.In fact they’re both on their second cup of coffee, which as it turns out is even better than the first, when Clarus asks, “What did you want to ask me?”

Regis feels weight settle in him. “About the same thing I always ask. The same thing you always avoid answering.”

An amused smile pulls at Clarus’s mouth. But there’s hidden fear there too. Unease. Discomfort. 

Clarus points out, “You could just order me, your Highness.”

Regis corrects, more out of instinct than anything else now, “It’s Regis, Clarus. We’re just two friends right now, sitting in a Lestallum café, drinking spiced coffee.”

Clarus seems to bite his tongue, or something to the effect.

“How did you win?” Regis asks brashly. “How did you beat Dominous?” The brother who was stronger and faster and bigger, in every way, and the absolute favorite.

It’s almost expected when Clarus says, “I heard from Victrious a couple weeks after my mother declared me your Shield and the victor.”

At the mention of the eldest Amacita brother, Regis gives pause.

Clarus chuckles out, “Victrious wanted to know the same thing.”

Regis isn’t surprised. Victrious and Dominous, though separated by a handful of years, have always been the closets of the Amicitia brothers. When Victrious left to fulfill a calling in Tenebrae, Regis expected he was rooting for Dominous to become the king’s future Shield.

“He wasn’t accusatory or demanding,” Clarus clarifies. “Just dumbfounded, I think. Isn’t that what everyone was? Or ever still is.”

Regis arches an eyebrow. 

Clarus leans forward in his seat, pressing himself into Regis’s personal space. He tells the future king, “I figured it out quickly.”

“Figured what out?”

Clarus says, “That I didn’t need to be the biggest, or the strongest, or the most experienced. I figured out what I needed to be, and I became that. I already was that. I won before the competition had even started.”

Sourly, Regis says, “You know riddles make me uneasy.”

“We trained for months and months,” Clarus revealed. “We trained in swords, bows, and other manners of weapons. Our mother tested us on our intelligence, our agility, and our ability to make critical decisions under pressure.”

Regis makes an encouraging sound. 

“Then, she did something she’d never done before with either of us, probably never with Victrious, either.”

This is important. Regis can see it etched on Clarus’s face. These words hold monumental importance.

“What did she do?”

Clarus’s eyes travel to the pendant that Regis usually wears under his shirt. It’s out now, in a rare showing, and Regis is starting to suspect it’s meant to be more than a simple good luck charm. 

“Clarus?”

Clarus is looking at him like they’re alone in the café, like no one else is present, no one else matters, and here they’re just Clarus and Regis. He looks like he wants to reach across the table for Regis, and if he does, Regis is prepared to meet him half way.

He knows Clarus won’t. Clarus is far too altruistic, far too clear on his stance of Regis being too young. But Regis like to imagine it all the same, the way Clarus might frame his jaw with a hand, and press devotion into a kiss.

“My mother,” Clarus starts, after clearing his throat, “revealed to my brother and I that the Amicitia line is the true power behind the throne.”

Regis feels air catch in his throat like a lump. 

Clarus continues on, “She told us that kings are easily manipulated when they trust, and that whichever of becomes Shield, will be who rules Insomnia.”

Regis can’t believe this. Astra is someone his father doesn’t just trust, she’s also his beloved. She’s always been kind and genuine, and to Regis, this is a dousing of frigid water.

“We protect the king, she said,” Clarus repeats, “to protect our own interests.” Clarus sobers. “She called your father a fool, and you a weak child. She said in the end it didn’t matter which of us won the seat of Shield, only that we bent the king to our will, and played you like a well-tuned instrument.”

Regis feels his hands start to shake and he clamps down on them by wrapping his fingers around the cup in front of him. He demands, “Why tell me this? Why reveal this?”

Clarus ignores him, saying instead, “She made it perfectly clear, if this was ever discovered, or if we were exposed, it would mean the end to the Amicitia line. She said to protect our family against all else. Nothing else mattered.”

“Clarus,” Regis manages hoarsely. 

Clarus shakes his head slightly. “Dominous, he was unsettled by it, but he pledged himself to our mother and her words. He swore loyalty to the family, and not to Insomnia, or King Mors, or you. And me? I said I needed time to think. I said I wanted the night to think things over. Dominous called me a plethora of names for not immediately following his lead.”

“But eventually you did,” Regis guesses numbly.

Clarus gives Regis an almost disappointed look. “I went to my tent while Dominous and my mother spoke of their plans, and I wrote the king. I told him everything, knowing that it would mean the deaths of many in my family, knowing that I would be outcast and shunned and reviled. I wrote the king with a pledge of loyally to him, to you, and to the crown itself. I sold my mother out in an instance, and that’s why I won.”

Regis looks at him, dumbfounded. “I …”

“It was the last test.” Clarus leans forward a bit more, his hand pressing so far across the table that his fingers brush the inside of Regis’s wrist. Maybe he can feel the pulse pounding there. “To see if I would choose my own family, or you. I choose correctly.”

“How cruel,” Regis says weakly.

Clarus looks tender now. “A Shield must put the King before all others. To the King’s Shield, there is no one more important than the King himself, not even the Shield’s own family. My willingness to sacrifice my family members, to have them put to death for plotting against you, proved my loyalty to the crown above all else. It’s easy to lay your life down for someone else, Regis. It’s more difficult to embody absolute loyalty.”

A little light headed, Regis asks, “Dominous …”

“He’s no traitor, not really,” Clarus says, but there’s an edge to his words, and here’s the real reason he hasn’t been back to Insomnia, Regis thinks. “He hesitated to believe our mother, and hesitated to pledge himself to her words. He only did so when she made it clear to him that our family would perish, otherwise. He chose wrong in the test of king and family. He still choose wrong, but his heart wasn’t black in that choice.”

Maybe Dominous won’t come home ever. Regis is starting to consider this as a possibility. Regis knows his father. He won’t have a threat to the monarchy living in such close quarters, and now it’s obvious that Dominous can be swayed.

“You traded your family for mine,” Regis says, feeling paper thin. He’s seemingly stuck in a moment of perpetual shock. “It was just a test, and your mother meant none of it, but you didn’t know that. And still you chose the kings of Lucis.”

Clarus corrects, “I chose you.”

Regi’s face is scorching hot.

“Niflheim is impossibly strong,” Clarus tells him. “And they’re the greatest threat we have ever faced as a people. But you’ll be the king that can withstand them, Regis.Insomnia is only as strong as her king, and you’re the rightful future king. I stand behind you for the future of Insomnia, and because I believe in you. You’re not just my king, you’re the future. You’re the only chance we have, and more than that … I feel … my traitorous heart tells me …”

“Tell me the truth,” Regis demands. “When I kissed you, you felt something, didn’t you?”

“You’re my prince,” Clarus says back at a near whisper. “It’s inappropriate, and that’s not even taking into consideration your age.”

Regis breaths out deeply. “Do you know why my mother went away? Back to Altissia?”

The look on Clarus’s face says everything.

“The Kings of Lucis,” Regis says, “have quite the habit of falling in love with their Shields.”

Clarus looks away.

Bluntly, Regis says, “I won’t always be sixteen.”

“But you will always be my king, future or present. My mother can cross whatever line she wants,” Clarus declares. “But I won’t see something happen to you because my own, personal feelings get in the way. This is how things must remain with us.”

Regis finds fault with the words. And with practiced ease, through all the nervousness in the world, he says, “Emotions are a funny thing, Clarus. They never stay stagnate. They either grow in intensity, or diminish over time. Which will it be for us?”

Then Clarus’s fingers do brush the inside of his wrist. The pads of his fingers seek out the life point on his pale skin, and then Clarus’s big hand is wrapping around Regis’s small wrist. It’s not a particularly tight hold, or restrictive one. But it is greedy, like Clarus is far from willing to let him go, no matter what his words are.

Slowly, Clarus says, “I believe you know which will suit us, your Highness.”

One day Regis will be king. Aulea will be his queen. And together, they’ll have an heir. Regis’s focus will be wholly on his people. And Regis will not allow himself the indulgence of happiness that is Clarus.

But that time is not now.

Outside the café, someone is pointing the crownsguard towards them, and it’ll be only seconds before they converge on the café.

The time for freedom has passed.

“One day,” Regis settles on telling Clarus, absolute certainty in his voice, “you will be the one to kiss me, Clarus Amicitia, Shield of the King. You’ll do it of your of volition, and both my station and age will have little impact on your actions.”

Clarus gives him a haunted look. The first of the crownsguard spot Regis just as Clarus replies, “Of that, your Highness, I fear I have no doubt.”


	5. Chapter Five

Regis goes back to Insomnia. There’s never any question of his return, but the event brings some fanfare, and a tenseness to Clarus’s face as they pass through narrow streets that will eventually widen. His hand clench at his pants in clear paranoia, and Regis offers small waves to the citizens that spot him.

“The car is bulletproof,” Regis reminds quietly, too aware of the driver in the front seat.

It was odd not having Cid at the wheel for the trip back. Instead of an older man with an ornery disposition, Regis was treated to a crownsguard who neither spoke nor looked him in the eye. And who made the drive in half the time Regis would have liked him to.

“But you,” Clarus says just as softly, “are not.”

There are a million other reasons not to be as anxious as Clarus stews. The most noteworthy is the power of the crystal that thrums through Regis. He feels it in his blood, in his bones, and he feels its power wash out into Clarus. Clarus now has the ability to summon a weapon effortlessly with direct access to the crystal’s power through Regis. They’ve spent time practicing it. Regis isn’t worried about being attacked, not with Clarus at his side. 

Aulea is waiting for him when he pulls up to the Citadel. Her hair is longer than before, down past her shoulders, and glossy in the midday sun. And even in the handful of months Regis has been gone, she’s grown taller, fuller, and more adultlike. She’s ever closer to sixteen, and she looks every bit of it.

She also presses him close to her when he’s clear and free of the car. Ignoring all modesty and decorum, she hugs him tightly and says in a muffled way, “I missed you.”

Regis hugs her back. “I missed you too.”

“It was so boring without you,” she imparts. “I almost died of it.”

Clarus looks displeased with her choice of words, but doesn’t comment.

Regis shakes his father’s hand next, after a proper bow, and then when they’re in the privacy of his father’s study, hugs him just as tightly as Aulea.

Time, in the most predictable manner, passes.

Regis turns seventeen, and then eighteen, and he creeps steadily closer to the throne. 

Clarus wins the approval of the King’s council during this time, cements his position at Regis’s side, and doesn’t so much as ever mention their single shared kiss. But the lingering looks remain. Clarus’s fingers will sometimes brush the inside of Regis’s wrist, seeking out the beating pulse there. And Regis still curls his own fingers upward without hesitation. These moments are fleeting at best, but they remain.

And Aulea says dirtily into his ear at least once a month, “You could take him to your bed, you know. He wants you badly. Even I can see that. Almost as badly as you want him.”

Regis always pinches her in response. 

More time passes. 

Regis learns that Dominous, his once expected Shield, has gone to join his brother in Tenebrae, and will not return to Insomnia in the near future. He’s cut ties with the monarchy in nearly every way, and Clarus seems burdened by it in many ways. But also relieved.

Clarus is forthright when he says, “Victrious will look after him. It’s the best place for him, mother and I think.”

Regis wonders how much of Dominous’s relocation to Tenebrae is his own personal choice.

Regis finishes school. There’s been a pushback lately to integrate the royal line and the supreme houses more fully into regular society. Regis has spent his childhood being tutored alongside Aulea and other high profile children, in the safety of the Citadel. But Regis knows his own son will attend a typical high school. His son, and the generation that comes next, will be less separate and more cohesive in the general public. 

He finishes school all the same, and this means he’s expected to attend his father’s council meetings and public hearings more fully. There’s no reprieve, and he begins to understand why Kings age so quickly in the Lucian line. The crystal only has some to do with it.

“You look worn thin,” Clarus says one night. They’re in Regis’s bedroom, and Regis is at the window, which is still his favorite spot, practically leaning on it. Insomnia glints in the night and Regis has never loved her more. He’s also beginning to resent her. “Are you well?”

“Just tired,” Regis responds. Niflhiem is growing ever more bold. They’re expanding their presence more rapidly now, acting with aggression, testing the limits of the fragile peace that barely still exists. 

Regis has heard talk of preemptive strikes, negotiations gone cold, and fears surrounding an uncertain future. His father is still hiding the severity of the situation from him, but not by much.

“You should rest,” Clarus urges.

Regis turns to give him a somber, if not sad look, and replies, “It’s not that kind of tired.”

Regis wonders what he looks like to Clarus now. He grows more pallid, more stern, and less boyish with each day. Regis smiles less now, his twentieth year not so far away, and finds less to be happy about. He’s failed to grow any taller with the last push of puberty, but his voice has deepened. He doesn’t read for fun anymore, he fears he’s lost his sense of humor for good, and he hasn’t had a full night’s rest likely in over a year.

He is not the same person who so brazenly stole a kiss across a camp fire.

He’s a painting slowly bleeding color away.

He’s a prince becoming a king. 

“Come to bed,” Clarus prods, trying to pull at Regis gently, to tug him away from the window. 

Regis presses a hand against the window. “Clarus …”

“Highness.”

Regis sighs. “I miss it.”

Clarus only looks confused. “Miss what?”

A feeing of melancholy overtakes Regis. “I miss sitting in a Lestallum café, drinking spiced coffee.”

He misses his youth, and being able to sneak off with Aulea, and have all sorts of imagination driven adventures.

He misses making new friends and being more than this title to them.

He misses camping under the stars, and foraging for items for Cid to cook with, and stargazing with only a crackling fire for conversation.

Clarus moves swiftly, ducking a bit in his still taller, much impressive height, to press his forehead against Regis’s. Clarus has grown lax in correctness when they’re alone, and this is something Regis approves of greatly. Now is all the evidence Regis needs, as Clarus’s forehead bumps his own, and his Shield’s hands bracket his face. 

“I miss,” Clarus breathes out, “Cooking in the hotel kitchen with Weskham. Or rather, getting to try his new recipes.”

Regis counters, “I regret not getting to see Cid and Weskham face off in a culinary battle.”

Regis writes the both of them frequently, actually. Cid almost never responds, too busy with his garage, and when he does, the replies are short and frank, but Regis knows he appreciates them all the same. And it comforts Regis to know how well Cid is doing. His garage is a smashing success, despite its almost barren location, and Regis wants desperately to visit it. He wants to meet Cid’s daughter, and his granddaughter, and he wants to be that boy again, the one who travelled through open land to reach a city of impressive glow. 

Weskham writes back to Regis far more frequently than Cid. He’s long ago left his parent’s side as their assistant. Regis has their most recent book. While Regis has been stagnant, based in Insomnia for years, Weskham has been traveling around, learning new recipes, developing new styles, and being free. He writes to tell Regis about all the amazing things he’s seen and done, and Regis is jealous. He holds real fondness for his friend, and is happy for him, but the jealousy can be overwhelming. 

They all play the cards they are dealt. Regis is prince, eventually to be king. He’s not meant for the freedom Weskham has. 

Jealousy follows anyway. 

Regis constantly extends invitations to Weskham, inviting him to Insomnia. He tries to use their friendship as leverage, and when that doesn’t work, he tries to bribe Weskham with access to Insomnia’s best cooks. He tries everything in his power to sway his friend to visiting, but Weskham resists. In the end, Regis isn’t really surprised. Weskham has always been fiercely driven by his own interests, and there’s little in Insomnia for Weskham.

“Just because Cid could cook,” Regis says with the barest hint of a grin, “didn’t mean he really enjoyed it.”

Clarus hums in agreement, his thumbs stroking over the short stubble on Regis’s jaw.

“I regret,” Clarus offers, with more than a hint of remorse, “not letting you go see the chocobos.”

At their mention, Regis smiles fondly. It’s a moment of reprieve he needs from the intensity of the heat passing between them. 

“I could have gone anyway, if I wanted to,” Regis says, even though it’s a lie.

Clarus doesn’t take the bait, responding, “You absolutely would not have, Regis. You have always been far too good about following the rules.”

Regis pushes a little further into Clarus’s touch. His Shield using his given name is a good indication of how the conversation is set to go. 

“I’ll be king soon enough,” Regis says confidently, too clear the picture in his mind of his ever-frail father. “A king shouldn’t have these kinds of regrets. Not ones as petty as these.”

Clarus’s fingers slide along Regis’s jaw with familiarity. “You are entitled to whatever you wish. And if the opportunity arises, I’ll do my best to see you have what you desire.”

Coldness flushes through Regis in the moment, like a tingling sensation that goes down to his toes. With every month that passes, it seems less and less likely he’ll be able to have what he most desires. After all, Clarus has had ample time, and Regis is no boy anymore, and still nothing has happened. 

Whatever hang-up Clarus has now, it’s not one Regis has any control over. It’s nothing Regis can fix or wait out. 

“My liege,” Clarus breathes out, and his lips are a breath away. It would be impossibly easy to lean up and kiss them. But Regis won’t kiss Clarus again. He won’t be the one initiating such a thing. Regis has been firm where his desires stand, and now Clarus holds all the power. 

Still no kiss comes.

Regis has long stopped expecting it to.

Regis pulls himself from Clarus’s grasp, and ambles his way to the bed across the room. He sits on it heavily, and then breathes out. 

“I saw the missive,” Regis says. He looks to Clarus who is framed in the moonlight. 

“Missive?” Clarus follows him to the bed. 

Fingers working the buttons on his overcoat, Regis is grateful to have the task as a distraction. He can focus on the shiny brass buttons instead of the words that come next—the words that have been weighing on him for days now.

“Your mother means to see you married before the end of the year.” It nearly breaks Regis to say the words.

Clarus manages, “Oh.”

A little defensively, and with a hint of boyhood, Regis defends, “I wasn’t being nosey. I was with my father when she spoke to him about it. She has the perfect bride in mind, too.”

Clarus already knows. Regis can see it on his face. Clarus is well aware of who his mother wants him to marry, and likely when it’s tentatively set to take place. 

Part of Regis feels a little betrayed. He has no room to.

“Gilda Ambrose,” Clarus tells him. “My mother was circling House Ambrose for years before it was decided who would be your shield. I’m confident my mother meant to arrange a marriage between House Ambrose and either Victious or Dominous.” But neither of them are coming back to Insomnia any time soon, Regis infers, and so Clarus is the next best option. 

“House Ambrose is indisputable in its value to the throne,” Regis says simply. 

Clarus replies, “I didn’t ask to be married to her. I’ve had very little contact with her ever. She’s six years my senior.”

But she’s everything a high-born lady is supposed to be. She is beautiful and clever and incredibly well learned. Her family has sat in the king’s favor for generations, and underneath everything, it is a good match. To tie the closest allies of the king together, is a smart move. Regis is almost awed. 

“In the spring,” Regis offers.

In an atypical move, Clarus moves to sit next to Regis on the bed. He confesses, “The ink is nearly dry on the paper, and I haven’t seen her since before my voice deepened. I don’t know anything about her, except for what everyone else tells me. She won’t even return to Insomnia for another five months.”

Regis clamps down on his anger. He has no right to feel so. Clarus is not his lover, despite Regis’s desire. And Clarus hardly speaks of the feelings he carries for Regis at all.

More than that, the great houses must continue. Regis will marry Aulea, and beget a child because he must. There is no difference with House Amicitia. Whether Regis’s child is a boy, and the next great king of Lucius, or the first queen to rule in a thousand years, makes no difference. If there is a monarchy, there must be a Shield. 

Clarus’s hand comes dangerously closer to touching the silk pulled over Regis’s pantleg at his knee. 

Almost fiercely, Clarus vows, “You are my prince, Regis, and you will by my king. My sovereign. No matter who I marry, or the family that I have, none of them will ever be as important to me as you. That is the way of the Shield. You will always come first.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” Regis demands, head whipping sharply to Clarus. “Am I supposed to be comforted by the idea of the animosity your wife will one day feel for me, if not from the start? Will I be the one responsible for your own marriage ending the way your parent’s has, or mine?”

Regis knows he’s struck something deep and painful in Clarus, because Clarus’s body tenses.

Regis regrets bringing up Clarus’s father immediately. It’s a bit of an unspoken rule, in a way. Clarus’s father is often the butt of jokes in many highbrow political circles, especially when the most powerful members of specific houses gossip. Because it isn’t just Regis who knows who visits the king’s bed at night, and it’s obviously a spot of humiliation for the man.

The way Regis has been able to figure it, over the long years and many overheard conversations, his parents were never in love. They cared fondly enough for each other, and though their relationship is strained, they do remain friends to this day. And when his mother left, she did so with the king’s favor, inviting him to be true to himself and his heart, long ago having accepted that King Mors Lucis Caelum is in love with Astra Amicitia.

But Clarus’s father was the last to know of his wife’s infidelity, and has never been quite so accepting. 

Now the man cloisters himself away, attending few social gatherings, holding nothing but contempt and disgust for king and country.

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” Clarus says bluntly, startling him. “You will always be the most important person in the world to me. You will always come first. You will always be my priority.”

Regis bites down on the inside of his cheek.

He’s still gnawing away at the flesh there when Clarus adds, “She’ll go into the marriage knowing that. It won’t be like … it’ll be different with her. She’ll know from the start what it means for me to be your Shield.” Clarus’s jaw locks. “I’m a convenient means of moving her family even closer into the king’s fold. And to my house, she’s the means for continuing on the bloodline.”

Dryly, Regis laughs. “It’s too much to ask for either of us to marry for love, isn’t it?”

“People like us don’t get to marry for love.”

“I don’t know,” Regis muses, stripping off his overcoat. “Look at House Scientia. They have a way of producing envious marriages, at least for those of us who care about love.”

Clarus shakes his head. “They’re a joke because of it, making matches based on attraction and emotions.”

“You mean the reason marriages should occur for?” 

“Exactly.”

Together, the two of them have a quiet laugh. 

By the time Regis has worked his way down to his undershirt, the room is blurring before him, and he knows he has to go to bed.

Clarus rises from his bed and pads over to the door that separates their rooms. He still uses it infrequently, and seems to find the idea of it unseemly, but it’s happening more now, than it ever used to in the past. Regis likes it, and wants to cling to it for a little longer, because the moment Clarus is married, his rooms will change. Clarus and his wife will likely still live, at least for the early parts of their marriage, on the same floor in the Citadel as Regis. But even that too will change one day.

“Regis,” Clarus calls out to him, head inclined. “Your Highness?”

“I’m going to bed,” Regis promises. He’s already peeling at his socks in an undignified way.

“No. It’s not that.” Clarus’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Marrying to produce a legitimate heir,” Clarus tells him, “is my duty. It’s the same duty that you and Aulea will marry for.It’s the duty that Insomnia depends upon. But it’s only a duty, and nothing else.”

Regis meets this gaze. “It’s a binding duty, Clarus.”

He thinks Clarus understands what he’s saying. Regis desires him greatly, his strong, brave, kind friend. But Regis will not covet a married man. Or rather, he won’t make any untold moves towards one.

Maybe this is what Clarus is hoping for. 

Maybe Regis has been delusional all these years.

“Binding or not,” Clarus says with a grimace, “it’s not a choice that I make personally. If I were to choose—to have the option to choose, it’s not Gilda Ambrose I would choose.”

Regis holds his gaze. He says evenly, “It’s not Gilda Ambrose you may choose in this exact moment.”

For just a second, Clarus looks weak.

Regis gives him a reprieve, offering, “You should go to bed as well, Clarus. I’ll see you then.”

Slowly, Clarus turns.

Regis’s father often tells him, in one way or another, that there is nothing more lonely than kingship.Regis has always taken this as fact, and an accepted thing. But he’s never felt it until now. Not truly. Maybe loneliness is the true heartbreak of kingship. 

As much of a truth of Clarus’s upcoming wedding is, it’s still months and months away. It’s meant to happen in the spring, like most marriages, and it gives Aulea plenty of time to comment, “What’s his problem? Clarus Amicitia is a total jackass.”

Regis looks out over Insomnia from their private balcony, a spot Regis hopes will always remain just his and Aulea’s. Maybe he can make it a decree someday.

“I think,” Regis says, “Clarus is very much your friend, so there’s no point in railing him for something he has no choice over.”

Aulea, with a slim, delicate hand, brushes his comment away like a gnat in the air. “I’m not talking about his marriage. Most people start planning the matches for their children when they’re born. I’m talking about how he obviously has a raging boner for you—”

“Aulea!”

“And,” she presses on, “he won’t do anything about it before it’s too late.” She peers at him. “He knows what kind of man you are. He knows about both your parents. He’s obviously aware that you are far too honorable to do anything with him when either of you are married. So what’s his hold up now?”

Regis gives her a long look. Then finally, he says, “I’m starting to think that’s the point.”

Aulea blinks curiously. “Sorry?”

Regis should be practicing his speech. He’s got to give one in less than two days, intended to further convince the people that their increasingly controversial policy of isolationism is the right choice. 

Insomnia is not prepared to go to war. Insomnia has never been a heavily militarized country, finding strength more in its culture and history, and recently its industrialized progress. Insomnia is not Niflheim, who gobbles up land in some perverse need to have ultimate control, to resurrect Solheim.

Insomnia has no standing army. It has reserves, and it has a section of the populace that has trained for the rare need to mobilize, but Insomnia cannot simply go to war.

The only edge that Insomnia has, that it has always had, is the crystal and the king that wields the crystal. The crystal, with its unimaginable power, can help Insomnia withstand an attack, but it’s not an indefinite solution. Even the Wall is not meant to hold forever.

So insomnia, by both Regis and his father’s reason, cannot challenge Niflheim’s crawl to power. No matter how Niflheim consolidates, Insomnia cannot do anything but wait, and not interfere. 

Now Regis only has to convince the people of Insomnia, some of them who have family in the areas being threatened by Niflheim’s reach, and some of them who have immigrated to Insomnia from there, that this is the right course of action. 

And he has less than two days to not only memorize the speech, but make it believable. Regis isn’t even sure he believes in the words. 

“Regis?”

Regis gives her an apologetic look. “I have a lot on my mind right now, Aulea. I apologize.”

Aulea certainly isn’t one to hold a grudge, so she only shrugs and asks again, “Why do you think he’s doing this on purpose to the both of you?”

“He’s getting married in the Spring,” Regis tells her. “And even if he weren’t, our marriage is only a few years off. What if we allowed ourselves to indulge? What if we took each other to bed?”

“Then you’d both probably be in a much better mood, half the time,” Aulea says salaciously. 

Regis makes a low sound. “I assume, it means that Clarus is fully aware that we’d be under incredible time constraints.”

“You’d still have each other.”

Regis leans himself over the balcony a little bit, elbows up on the guard rail. “Imagine giving yourself to someone, Aulea. Imagine giving all of yourself to someone. Imagine loving them, sharing their bed, and being the most intimate with them that two people can possibly be. Then imagine having that ripped away from you, to share a bed with someone you hold no love or affection for, to be committed to someone that … just imagine that.”

Aulea’s face crumples a little. 

“Clarus knows he could make a move at any moment, and I wouldn’t turn him away. He knows he could have me, and share my bed. But he also knows one day he’ll wake up and he won’t have that anymore, and worse, he’ll have to give himself to a practical stranger, and then see me every day and remember what we had.”

Aulea is quiet to his side, and Regis takes that to mean she’s soaking in his words. 

“How is it fair for him to do that to himself? To me? Clarus is nothing if not thoughtful and respectful. For him, this idea is likely too much, and I accept that now.”

“Do you think it’s better?” Aulea presses at his side, her shoulder bumping his. “Like this? The long looks and desire, but no action? I know what you’re risking if you indulge, but at leastyou’d have each other for a time. You’d have happiness, and I want happiness, even if it’s not lasting.”

Quietly, Regis agrees, “I want happiness, too.”

“You deserve happiness.”

But some things, Regis learned at a very young age, are not meant to be.And at least Regis has Aulea. Clarus is expected to marry and father children with a stranger, a woman who may be his complete opposite and whom he might share no interests with. But Regis and Aulea have been best friends for the better part of fifteen years. They know each other almost too well, and even if they aren’t in love, they love each other very deeply. 

Regis feels absolutely no sexual attraction to Aulea, no matter how beautiful she is, but he can see himself conceiving an heir with her. With Aulea, it will be an obligation, but not a troublesome one. 

In this regard, Regis is far more lucky than Clarus. 

“It’s not me, right?”

Regis turns to her. “You? What do you mean?”

Aulea gives him a stern look. “The reason why you won’t consider giving yourself happiness after we’re married? Regis, you know I love you very much, but we’re not soulmates. We’re not meant to love each other like soulmates do. I’m not saying Clarus should be that to you either, but how will you know if you don’t look? I want you to be happy. I want you to find that kind of love in your heart, and when we have an heir whose legitimacy is assured, I don’t see why either of us can’t seek other pleasurable accommodations.”

“Aulea,” Regis tells her, something catching in his throat. “I won’t be like my father.”

She comments quietly, “It sounds like you resent him a bit.”

“Maybe I do.” He most certainly does.

“It’s not infidelity, Regis, if I know about it and give my blessing. It’s not you dishonoring me if that’s what I want for you.”

No. Regis won’t. He tells Aulea, “I think it broke my mother’s heart a little, every time she saw the way my father looked at Astra Amicitia. She gave her permission, too. She wanted my father to be happy, too. And it wore her down until she couldn’t take it anymore.”

Aulea promises him, “I’m not going to run off to Altissia, Regis, and leave you alone with our daughter.”

Regis balks with a laugh. “Daughter?”

Aulea waves a dismissive hand. “Look, I know, the line of Lucis hasn’t has a reigning queen in a hundred and thirteen generations. I get it. But I’m having a daughter. A beautiful, blond daughter.”

Regis laughs heavier now, but he can see it. And maybe that’s the scary part. 

“And what will you do, Aulea, when we have a dark-haired son?”

The quaint smile on Aulea’s face tells Regis everything he needs to know. 

“It’s not you,” Regis reveals finally. “I just can’t, Aulea. I can’t forsake the vows of my marriage.” What Aulea plans to do, and the choices she makes, will be her own. Regis won’t hold her back, he won’t hold her to his own standards, and he won’t criticize the moment she takes a lover. But for him, it’s something he can’t even bring himself to consider, let alone do.

“Then you’ll just continue on like this?” Aulea asks, no accusation in her voice, just uncertainty. “You’ll continue to circle around each other, drawing out your misery?”

“I suppose so.” Regis leans more heavily on his elbows.   
  
Aulea’s head tips on his shoulder, and Regis isn’t how long they’re out there, but it must be some time. Because the sun dips in the night, and then Clarus is there, slipping onto the balcony, calling out, “Regis, Lady Aulea, it’s nearly time for dinner to be served.” 

Aulea sneaks a squeeze to his hand and it offers a moment of strength to Regis. 

Then she practically flounces by Clarus and her elbow conveniently ends up in his side.

Clarus looks bewildered, not hurt, and in a confused way, Clarus asks, “What was that?”

Regis remarks, “I pity anyone to who thinks that Aulea is a docile girl more content to stand by the wayside and contemplate stitching patterns, than stand up for what she believes is an injustice.”

Clarus’s face remains puzzled. “What’s the injustice?”

“Fate,” Regis tells him. “It’s always fate.”

Two days later Regis gives his speech, rallying the people of Insomnia to stand with the monarchy’s decision to further distance itself from the trouble befalling Eos in the form of Niflheim. It’s met with furry of cheers, a standing ovation, and a public kiss to cheek from Aulea who congratulates him, which causes a roar of approval from the gathered crowd.

Six days after that, Regis’s steward tries to kill him. 


	6. Chapter Six

Try is most certainly the word.

The attack happens when Regis is in his personal study. He’s old enough now, with enough responsibilities, to have his own study. It’s still a foreign concept, though, despite having had it for well over a year now. And truthfully, Regis is often guilty of gathering up his paperwork and ducking into the king’s study to claim a spot on the settee nearest the window, where he can chat easily with his father, when the both of them have spare time.

Regis is closer to his father now than he’s ever been, and more distant from his mother. He writes her infrequently now, no matter how much he worries about her safety in Altissia, and spends nearly all his free time with his father.

He tells himself it’s because his father is waning. His father grows paler with each passing day, and he talks more and more about when Regis is king. 

But frankly, Regis hasn’t felt close to his mother since his childhood. It’s maybe because of the distance between them, or maybe because his mother sequesters herself away in Altissia, which is such a jewel of Eos that even though Nifelheim has long since invaded, little will ever change or be damaged. Maybe it’s because pressure mounts on Insomnia with each passing day, and they desperately need her strength, and when she sends words, it’s of inconsequential things. 

Perhaps Regis just enjoys the company of his father more. 

In any case, Regis hardly uses his own study. But when he does, he isn’t alone. Regis’s steward, Caius Faironbrow is with him. Caius, who has been Regis’s steward from the start, is responsible for everything from Regis’s correspondence, to helping structure his speeches, to mapping out his schedule. Caius organizes when and where he travels, and coordinates with the crownsguard, and keeps Regis on track.

Caius is indispensable, no matter how antiquated and archaic the position is. 

None of the regular citizens use stewards anymore, and the position is unheard of outside of Insomnia. But Regis can’t function without his own, and even Clarus, belonging to a noble house, occupies a steward. All the noble houses employ them, and maybe Regis trusts in his own, too easily.

He assumes that Caius will perform his job to the utmost professionalism, and that his privacy is safe. Regis assumes Caius is loyal to the crown, and is far from a security threat.

For just under two years, there isn’t a hint of malice from Caius, not until he’s jamming a silver letter opener into Regis’s side, jamming the blade between ribs, and dragging it outward to impose the greatest injury possible. 

The crystal responds accordingly, slamming Caius back against the far wall as a push of shielding extends. An arc of blood follows, and Regis’s knees are weak, but the room quakes, Regis has his blade in hand, and Caius looks at him from glazed eyes as blood escapes his mouth.

In a horrified way, Regis traces the extent of the man’s injuries to the wooden leg of a chair protruding from the steward’s chest. The pulse of energy from Regis, via the crystal, has destroyed the room, and Caius is mortally injured from it. 

Crownsguard burst into the room, shouting orders at each other, diving into the breech to reach Regis’s side. 

Regis’s knees unlock and he bounces off his desk in an undignified way as he crashes down to the ground. Arms move to catch him, only somewhat sucessfully.

Something feels wrong. Something is terribly wrong. 

The shout for a healer echoes in the room, and Regis’s eyes lock onto Caius.

There is no hated in the man’s eyes, only content, and he stares back at Regis in an open way, unlike anything Regis has ever seen before.

His former steward is mouthing something, something Regis can’t make out, and then the man isn’t even breathing. 

Regis falls back squarely, so he’s looking up at the white ceiling.

A pulse of hot pain jars him, then another, and Regis feels it creeping along him like spilled ink. 

“Highness!”

A shiver wracks Regis, despite the heat of the pain from his wound, and his vision goes gray, then darker, then he’s barely conscious.

He feels a worn hand slide against his palm, and then he feels nothing.

The kings of Lucis are harder to kill than most assume.

But the letter opener, unbeknownst to Regis, had been coated with poison, and it’s the reason Regis floats in and out of consciousness for days. The power of the crystal, behooved to the king’s line, races through Regis’s body, working to counteract it, and the best healers in all of Insomnia wait at his bedside with the most modern of techniques at their disposal. They administer potions and medications, and Regis registers almost none of this. 

A fever rages in him, Regis hovers between life and death, and all the while, he dreams.

When Regis wakes up, to a broken fever and a dark room, it’s impossible for him to tell how long he’s been out, how bad the damage has been, and what kind of recovery period he’s looking at. He doesn’t care about any of it, honestly. To him, the only thing that matters is that there’s a unexpected weight across his legs, and a hand in one of his own.

Aulea is at the foot of his bed, folded over it, either asleep or just merely dozing, but not paying any attention to the fact that he’s awake. 

And at the head of the bed, holding his hand, is Clarus. Clarus is seemingly holding on for dear life, watching him with an expression that hides chaos under its calm façade. 

“You’re awake,” Clarus says at a whisper. There’s no one else in the room, but there’s a sense of peace to it, and no one seems eager to bust the bubble.

“What happened?” Regis asks. He doesn’t meant the attack, or the failed attempt on his life. He means after. Clarus, in the way that only Clarus can read him, understands. 

“The blade was poisoned,” the Shield supplies. “The action of stabbing you wasn’t meant to take your life, the poison was. It came close, too, a couple of times. But you’re strong. You’re impossibly strong. You’re a king.” Clarus presses closer then, his face at the crook of Regis’s neck. He must smell terrible, having gone days without showering, and spent most of his sick time sweating through his fever. Clarus doesn’t seem to care. He only wants to be closer. 

“Why?”

Niflheim? 

No, Clarus’s eyes stare back the answer to his unspoken question. 

Regis is left dazed. 

Then who?

It’s not an attack intended for the glory of Niflheim, Clarus says in a quiet voice, as steady as he pressure of his hand around Regis’s. It’s the attack of one desperate man, against another who he feels has wronged him.

Clarus says it’s like this:

Caius Faironbrow is a transplant from Tenebrae, and a distant cousin of Princess Sylva, who Regis has met before, and nearly ended up engaged to himself. He’d come to Insomnia decades ago, as a young boy, with his parents, and has lived off and on in both Insomnia and Tenebrae. He has a wife in Tenebrae, children, and extended family. And the best Clarus and the crownsguard can figure it, he attacked Regis as a response to Regis and the crown’s imposed policy of isolationism. 

“It was an attack made out of fear and anger,” Clarus says, his mouth mumbling against Regis’s skin. “He was angry and felt you were condemning his family to death. He held you personally responsible, as the future king, and as the person who has more sway over your father than anyone else.”

Regis frowns. “What would killing me have achieved?”

Clarus breathes out deeply. “Nothing, I assume, other than your suffering along with that which he precieved his family to be destined for.”

“He should have talked to me,” Regis says with his sleep scratchy voice, despondent. “I would have spoken to him about the necessity of Insomnia closing itself off. I would have …” He would have gotten the man’s family to safety, given him an audience with the king, or a million other things that might have resolved the issue without blood being spilt. 

“Some men are above reason,” Clarus reminds. “Some are mad with grief.”

Regis is buried under a mountain of blankets, but he feels so, so cold. 

“I should have been there,” Clarus confesses.

“In my study, with my steward who was trusted?” Regis scoffed.

Clarus says in a muddled way, “You have a custom of getting yourself into mortal peril the moment I step away from you.”

Breathless, Regis tells him, “Maybe you shouldn’t then.”

Clarus makes a noise of agreement, then levies himself up on the best a little. He lets go of Regis’s hand and strokes his fingers instead through the sweaty mess that is Regis’s bangs. It’s a soothing motion, but for which of them, is unclear. 

“I’m not so easy to kill,” Regis says, feeling Aulea shift across his legs, but she doesn’t wake. “You know this.”

“My heart stopped,” Clarus confesses, “when I entered your study and saw the damage. You had been spirited away to the healers already, but Caius’s body was still there, growing cold, and your blood was on the floor. Then when I saw you, lying so still, poisoned …”

“The crystal protected me.”

Regis can barely feel it now. It’s like an echo to him, brushing against his soul in the slightest of ways. But it’s there, and once he’s fully recovered, Regis is confident his connection with it will go back to normal. 

“It could have easily not,” Clarus says, voice weak. His lips are a mere breath away from Regis’s.

Carefully, Regis says, “I would never leave Insomnia, her people, or you, without a reason worthy of such sacrifice.”

Clarus’s fingers trail over his features, curving with his nose, along his jaw, and then to his lips. 

Clarus chokes out, “You cannot see the future.”

“But gods have whispered the truth to me,” Regis argues back. At least in his dreams they are. And be they real or not, Regis is inclined to believe. He is no Oracle. But these dreams he has, about his dark haired son who is meant to ascended the throne, his Noctis, are indisputable. 

Regis isn’t meant to die so soon. He’s meant to live yet.

Viciously, Clarus snaps, “Damn the gods.”

Regis wants to rebuke Clarus, or chide him on his carless words. 

But Clarus grips his chin securely, so open and so desperate, and he steals a fervent kiss. 

It’s the kind of kiss that the great poets write about, that the bards sing their songs of, and resolve grow weak from. Clarus kisses Regis in such a manner that wars are fought from, marriages forsaken, and whole lives upturned. 

It’s not merely a kiss of passion, but one of desperate love, and Clarus holds nothing back.

Clarus’s mouth consumes Regis’s wholly, pressing down with intent and want and need. He cradles Regis’s head with care and attention, and never for a second does Regis doubt the love that flows openly and freely between them.

It’s a kiss to rival all kisses, and Regis revels in it. 

It’s worth the wait. It’s worth a thousand nights of doubt and uncertainty. 

And Regis knows he will never feel anything more exquisite in his life. Nothing will come close to matching this moment of Clarus’s lips against his own.

Before there can be anything more than love and devotion between them in the kiss, before passion gives way to lust, Clarus draws back. He seems to instinctively sense he has Regis at a disadvantage, no matter how little Regis is contesting the imbalance. 

Cheekily, Regis can’t help pointing out. “I told you that you would kiss me one day.”

Clarus mumbles back, like he plans to kiss Regis again at any moment, “I wanted to kiss you every day since that night. Every second of every day. From the moment I woke, to the moment I slept. I’ve been driven mad with want.”

“Then why now?” Regis dares to ask.

Clarus gives him a kind look. “The hearts of men are made weak, Regis, when the things they love most are threatened.”

In a way, maybe their kiss should feel a little cheapened. Clarus is sitting here, telling Regis that he’s only made a move out of desperation and fear.

But Clarus’s lips brush Regis’s again, this time in a lighter kiss, but one no less important, and Regis doesn’t care about how it’s all coming to be. He only cares that Clarus is with him, in mind and body, and they’re stronger for it now. 

“Is my father okay?” Regis asks, reaching for Clarus’s hand again and holding on as tightly as he can. “What about the public reaction to this? What—”

“Regis.” Clarus leans up, kissing Regis’s forehead this time. “Everything is okay. Your father got word early last night that your fever had broken, and after several days of no rest, he’s getting some much needed rest. He’ll come to visit you when he can. And you don’t need to worry about how the general public is handling this. There are no riots in the streets, I promise you.”

Regis goes to speak again, but exhausting is creeping over him again and he’s still so, so tired.

“Rest,” Clarus urges, looking older now than he should. “You’re barely awake now, and when you’ll need your strength. I imagine both the king and Aulea will be unwilling to let you out of their sights for some time, and that’s after she and your father are finished smothering you with their worry and affection.”

Thinly, but with some humor, Regis says, “I’ll brace for it then, thank you, Clarus.”

Clarus’s eyes shine in the low light of the room, and he says in a gentle way, with no bravado and absolute honesty, “You hold my heart, Regis Lucis Caelum. Unequivocally. Wholly.”

“And you,” Regis vows back, “hold mine.”

Regis’s recovery is a slow one, but it does occur. He gets his strength back little by little, and his legs learn to grow strong and hold him up again. He has to endure Aulea practically glued to his side, helping him along like an invalid, but the king makes additional time for him, and it pleases Regis. Now he had his father spend an hour an evening together in the king’s study, sipping coffee laced with brandy, and simply talking. 

Clarus is with Regis every step of the way. He’s a buffer against the almost frantic people of Insomnia, desperate to see ad verify that their prince yet lives. And Clarus is an unmovable wall against the king’s councilmen, who spend obscene amounts of time arguing about the implications of the attack.

“There are not implications,” Regis says sharply the one time he lets himself be corralled into attending one of their meetings. He sits to his father’s left in the throne room, Clarus standing to his side, council members spread about it. “This was a political statement made by one man, not in support of Niflheim, but in protest of what he saw was Insomnia’s shortcomings.”

The king listens as a roar of conversation goes up in the room. 

Most of the king’s trusted advisors, comprised of the great and noble houses, do not believe Niflheim isn’t behind the attack in some way. Others call for a public statement. And more than one wants the city closed off indefinitely.

At that, Regis looks sharply to his father. Insomnia is terribly self sufficient. They produce more than enough clean energy to fuel their city wholly, and certainly enough food to feed everyone. Insomenia, with the pressed isolationism, has developed its own currency, separate from the rest of the continent, and the people need for nothing.

But wanting is not the same as needing. 

The people of Insomnia have family outside the crown city. They have business in other parts of Eos, no matter the presence of the Empire. Closing off the city, and not allowing anyone to pass in or out, will stagger that to a standstill, and Regis shudders to think about the morale level of the people. 

The debate goes absolutely nowhere, for several hours, and Regis is left exhausted. It’s only the strength of Clarus’s hand on his shoulder, that keeps him strong enough to endure. 

There’s also something in the way Clarus pushes him up against a hallway in a deserted stretch of Citadel, to kiss him wholly. Regis’s hands anchor at Clarus’s shoulders as he presses up into the kiss, savoring the heath there, indulging fully.

They’re like children in a way, with little to no self-control, now. Regis is nearly twenty, Clarus even older, and they’re meant to hold themselves accordingly. But as Regis regains the last of his strength, they find themselves slipping off together, hands everywhere, kissing and kissing and kissing, driving up the passion between them to the point where the tension is nearly suffocating. 

Regis has plans to take Clarus to bed, and soon. At least before the both of them go mad. 

“Highness,” Clarus grunts out, his hands snaking to Regis’s narrow hips. “Regis.”

Regis might take Clarus to bed now.

A voice clears and Regis jerks. Clarus arcs towards the sound, a hand clenched into a fist defensively. 

Regis’s heart thunders in a panic. He’s been careless. He’s been ridiculous in his carelessness, and he’s ashamed at his lustful behavior. 

“Your Majesty,” Clarus greets, dropping into a bow. 

Regis edges his way around Clarus, an apologetic look on his face.

His father seems to be doing his best to look stern at their actions but there’s a hint of humor in his eyes. 

“Regis,” his father says in a lecturing way. “I don’t believe you’re exercising a display of proper behavior.”

Regis hurries to bow to the king. “I’m sorry, father.”

His father advances on him slowly, a limp in his step, a recent development over the passing years. 

His father reaches him eventually, and presses his mouth near Regis’s ear to say, “There are eyes everywhere, my son. You should know this. Keen eyes and wicked tongues.”

Clarus rushes to intercede, “I apologize, Your Majesty. I take full responsibility for this egregious display of—”

The king interrupts the apology, to say to Regis still quiet, “Extend your reach of protection to yourself, son, and to the one you hold in your heart.”

“I’ll be more careful,” Regis promises. “I thought we were alone. I was wrong to assume.”

A smile hints more fully on the king’s face. “I believe you will be.”

Regis is flushed a particular shade of red in embarrassment. He’s had the joy of being caught kissing by his father, and he doesn’t know how long it’ll take to live such a thing down.

Then the king turns to Clarus and he tells him sharply, “I was young once, too. But be mindful, Clarus. You are the King’s Shield. When the king shows a lapse in judgement, for whatever reason, it’s your duty to set him back on track. This cannot happen if you lose yourself wholly to your indulgences.”

Clarus’s face is the one that’s heating now, and he rushes to say, “Yes, of course, Your Majesty.”

The king, in a satisfied way, gives Clarus an approving nod. 

The king turns to go, and Regis feels even more embarrassed when he spots Modella further down the hallway, watching with her keen eyes. But then his father is turning back, this time looking like a father, and he tells Regis in familiar words, “A king’s journey is a lonely one. I hold no judgement in your attempt to make it less so.”

No, Regis holds back from saying, because his father would be a hypocrite if he did. 

The loneliness is coming, however. In a little over six months, Clarus will be married, and everything will revert. 

“I will be more careful,” Regis says again, and that settles the matter. 

His father hobbles away, in the direction of Modella, but calls over his shoulder, “It’s time you took a new steward, my son. Stand taller than your fears.”

A new steward.

Regis sees the crush of fear on Clarus’s face.

But the king isn’t wrong. It’s been a little under two weeks since Regis’s poisoning, and Regis’s duties have understandably been postponed, and others shuffled. But this can’t continue indefinitely, and no matter his feelings on it, Regis has to get things back in order. For the sake of the people, things must return to normal. 

Clarus gives him an intuitive look and asks, “Who will you choose?” 

Regis feels nevermore at a loss. “I have absolutely no idea.”

But before he can do that, he has to go back to his office, where the attack happened.

Clarus hasn’t said anything, but Regis knows for sure that Clarus is all too aware that Regis as been avoiding the room. 

The time for that is over, however. 

In the morning, after having breakfast with Aulea, Regis makes his way slowly to the room designated as his personal study.He pauses at the door, Clarus hovering behind him, and puts his hand on the door handle. 

“Regis,” Clarus says softly. 

“It’s only a room,” Regis says, more to himself than Clarus. Then he pushes forward, opening the door and stepping inside.

The room is pristine in every way, and so unlike the last time Regis saw it. The clutter, damage, and broken items have long since been either removed or repaired, and everything sits exactly as it should. Regis’s previously cracked desk is sturdy once more, and the blood that once soaked through the carpet, is vanished as if by magic. If Regis hadn’t been involved in the altercation that took place in the room, he would never have known one occurred. 

It unsettles him in a way, to see things set so perfect, when Regis has seen his previous steward bleed out in the far corner to the left. 

Clarus closes the door behind them.

Regis asks, “What happened to him? To his body?” 

Clarus knows who he means, and answers, “You’ll have to ask your father, Regis. He made that decision. At the time, I was working with my mother to uncover if there was an accomplice of some sort. A steward doesn’t typically have such intimate knowledge of poisons.”

Regis turns, interested. “Did he?”

“No.” Clarus shakes his head. “A thorough search of his quarters unearthed correspondence between himself and his niece. She runs an apothecary in Lestallum, and sent the requested poison to him none the wiser. We believe he acted alone, Regis.”

Regis feels guilt over the matter. His steward acted out in fear and desperation, not malice or anything vengeful. And he was pushed to such a point by Regis, and the king, and everyone who couldn’t see the suffering of some citizens. 

Slowly, Regis makes his way to his desk, pulling out his chair, and then sinking into it. It feels the same, even if it isn’t the same. He remembers the sight of a pulse of crystal power leveling his chair up and throwing it through the nearby window. 

“Do you have a shortlist at least?” Clarus asks. “For the position of steward?” He sits across from Regis pensively.

Regis breathes out with audible worry. “I have those I know who are loyal to the crown.” But Regis needs someone he knows is loyal to him personally. What happened with his previous steward can never happen again.

Elbows on his knees as he leans forward in his chair, Clarus says, “There are a few notable members of House Amiciita that are undoubtable trustworthy. I can name three, maybe four, mainly first cousins, who I would trust with your correspondence and private business. If you want, I can arrange for you to speak with each of them.”

“That would be a headache in its own right,” Regis says in a frustrated way, rubbing at his forehead. The crystal hums its support through his bones. “Can you imagine the talk that would come from that kind of favoritism?”

Clarus gives a grunt of irritation. “Better favoritism than another, untrustworthy steward.”

Regis taps his fingers out on his desk. “I need someone I can trust. I need someone who I can trust, who isn’t heavily affiliated with one of the houses, who can competently carry out the duties of the station, and who …” Who can be a friend of sorts, or someone Regis can talk to and take advice from. 

“That’s asking quite a lot,” Clarus says somberly. 

“The impossible?” Regis proposes. 

An odd look comes over Clarus’s face, and Regis is immediately captivated. “What?”

The corners of Clarus’s mouth perk up. “Maybe not impossible.” He leans forward. “I have an idea. You’ll need to write a letter.”

In the end, Clarus’s idea seems like a shot in the dark, something doomed to fail from the start, and unrealistic at best. 

The moment Regis sends the correspondence out, he turns to Clarus and says, “He declined to come to Insomnia before, you’re well aware. He holds no love for the city.”

Clarus is far from dissuaded. “Something tells me the Empire is starting to creep under his skin, as it encroaches closer and closer to Lucis.He’s never had to take sides before, but things are changing. And if war is coming to Lucis, as we both know it is, I’m sure he’ll want to be in Insomnia, which will be the last real protected expanse of land in the region. Or at least he’ll want that for his parents.”

“That’s a bit dirty,” Regis points out, “using his parents to force his hand.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” Clarus boasts. “This is us extending an opportunity to him, one that he is completely welcomed to decline.”

Through it all, Regis doesn’t know how Weskham will respond to the offer. He can only hope for the best.

Nine days later, Weskham passes through Insomnia’s main security checkpoint, his parents right behind him, a well-traveled looking bag with him. He raises a hand to Regis when Weskham spots him, and makes his way over.

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Regis says, reaching out to shake Weskham’s hand. 

“You made a good offer,” Weskham says, a haunted look behind his pleased façade. 

“Join me for a private dinner tonight,” Regis requests, so they can talk, and Regis can get to the bottom of the look. 

Weskham gives a firm nod. “Let me introduce you to my parents.”

Later that night, after Weskham has had time to get his parents settled into their new apartment, and he’s properly introduced to the king, Regis, Clarus, and Weskham take a private dinner in the secondary dining hall. Even the servants have been removed for the meal, and it gives the room an air of confidentiality. 

Weskham starts off saying, “I came because of my parents. Something happened to them. They were near Gralea, cataloging some of the lesser known animals suited for a colder environment. They must have drifted too close to a military zone. One that was unmarked, I should point out.”

Regis sits back heavily in his seat, appetite abandoned. “How severe were the consequences?”

Weskham looks away, to the big window to the side of the room, where Insomnia is sparkling in the darkness. 

“They scared my mother,” Weskham says. “She’s sturdy. She doesn’t scare easily. But they scared her. And they roughed my father up, to say the least. For fun. They weren’t looking for a confession, or answers of any kind. They didn’t care. Neither did they care that my parents are citizens of the Empire, born and raised in Gralea. They did what they could to my parents, because they could. Because that’s what the Empire amounts to now.”

Gruffly, Clarus says, “You parents were lucky then, to be released.”

“Lucky?” Weskham snorts. “Luck had nothing to do with it. I took the sum of my life’s savings, and all of theirs, and I went to Gralea. I bribed those Niflheim soldiers to release them. It took everything we had, but I did it.”

So this is a move of desperation on Weskham’s part, Regis figures. 

“If it’s about money,” Regis says plainly, having known Weskham too long to sugarcoat anything, “I can give you what you need. I won’t have you take this post if it’s not something you’re willing to commit to, or you can’t dedicate yourself to. Your parents can stay here, Weskham regardless. They’ll be safe here.”

“Insomnia isn’t safe,” Weskham says wryly. He sighs, “But it is the safest place in all of Lucis.” He seems decided. “You’re a good man, Regis. You’re better than most.And I wouldn’t take this post, Your Highness, if I wasn’t prepared to do the station service.”

Regis confides, “I need someone I can trust. I need someone I can lean on, other than Clarus. You aren’t from one of the noble houses. You don’t have political ambitions. You don’t have allegiances, other than to me. You’re the perfect man for the job.”

Clarus agrees, “You’d be doing us a favor.”

“And,” Regis edges out, “I’ll give you the weekends to do what you want, with absolutely no contact or demands from me, with free reign of the kitchens.”

“I think,” Weskham admits, “I’ve given up on that ambition.”

Regis is startled. “No. I can’t believe that.”

“You had a real talent,” Clarus comments.

Distantly, Weskham says, “War is coming. Niflheim is creeping up on Lucis. It won’t be long before the Empire is knocking on its door. Insomnia is protected. The crystal and the shield protect the crown city. But what about the other regions? What good will a cook be out there?”

Clarus doesn’t answer, but Regis catches his attention and says, “To me, it isn’t about the cook at all. It’s about the food, and nothing is more valuable in terms of uncertainty and hardship, than the comfort of something fulfilling. Food serves that purpose. So I’d argue there’s a very significant need for cooks, no matter what comes next.”

Weskham’s head tilts. “I’m not even sure it’s about the food for me. Maybe it’s more about the hospitality of it all. I think it’s more about providing a comfortable, safe place for people to come, to meet their friends, and to enjoy themselves, with good food, of course.”

Regis gives no disagreement.

In the end, Weskham fits in quite nicely to the position of steward. 

It’s clear to see that Weskham has no formal training. He doesn’t write with a perfect script, he often is caught nose deep in reference books in the library, and for the first few months, he’s shaky whenever he sits in with the king’s council. 

But to Regis, he’s invaluable. If only because when Regis is worried about something, or something is weighing on his mind, Weskham is there to listen, and to give a frank opinion, the appointment is the clear and correct choice.

And Weskham does get better. He works his way into the complex nature that is life in the Citadel, never forsaking his loyalty to Regis, but also building intricate relationships with other members of the staff. Weskham worms his way into the mindset of the councilmen, too, and earns himself a reputation as being honest, forthright, and fair. 

The king himself approves of Weskham, which is praise enough for Regis.

“We should have a reunion,” Regis decides one night when he and Clarus and Weskham are gathered in his study. It’s a routine of theirs now that occurs nearly every night, more regular than Regis’s public appearances with Aulea, which are a precursor to the announcement of their official wedding date. 

There are nights when Regis sits alone in his study, or Clarus and Weskham gather without him. But at least a couple times a week, the three of them manage to meet and talk. It’s stress relief for Regis, and something he comes to depend on.

“A reunion?” Weskham asks. 

“Cid writes me a couple times a month,” Regis presses on. “He’s got his garage all up and working. He said we can come visit any time we want to.”

Clarus laughs. “I believe, Regis, his offer went something more along the lines of ordering us out there, before we turn to crystal and ice sitting up poised and still in our shielded tower.”

“Old man Cid,” Weskham laughs. “He’ll give you all the backhanded compliments in the world.He’s the only person I know who can dish out respect and make it sound like the opposite.”

“I miss him,” Regis admits. 

Clarus, after taking a long drag of his drink, points out, “It’s unlikely your father would allow you to leave Insomnia. Not without a plethora of crownsguard with you.”

Regis teases, “We could always sneak out.”

Weskham questions, “Are you two, or twenty?”

“Neither,” Regis laughs. His birthday is still months off. And there’s no point to entertaining the idea, really. He’d never make it past the main checkpoint in and out of the city. There’s no getting through Insomnia’s wall without expressed acknowledgement from the king. 

Clarus wonders, “What’re the chances of getting Cid up here instead?”

“Slim to none, right?” Weskham laughs.

Regis is in agreement. “He only came up here the one time because the reward was great enough for him to risk running into his family, and having to face his past. He won’t come again, not for anything short of Niflheim knocking on Lucis’s door, personally threatening his family.”

Clarus proposes, “Couldn’t help to ask once more though, right?”

“Maybe not,” Regis supposes. “I’ll do my best to think up a good reason for him to come here, then maybe we can get that reunion.”

“Good luck,” Weskham tells him.

It’s ironic, then, how Cid eventually finds his way back to Insomnia. 


	7. Chapter Seven

The sun isn’t even up properly, hanging so low in the sky that the room is still shrouded in shadows, when Regis pressed his naked body down against Clarus’s, and gives a happy hum. He’s balanced on top of Clarus, knees on either side of the man’s hips, his arms folded up against Clarus’s chest. They’re both spent, a little too sweaty, and in desperate need of a shower, but Regis feels content. 

Clarus’s fingers drag through his hair, and with fondness, at a whisper, he tells Regis, “You’re so beautiful.”

“You’re so ridiculous,” Regis responds, but truthfully, he wants to preen. He likes compliments as much as anyone else, and he likes them best when they come from Clarus. 

Clarus adds, “You are. To me, you’re the most beautiful person in all of Eos.”

“I bet you say that to all the young princes you take to your bed.”

Clarus gives a laugh, and in one smooth motion he has Regis on his back against the sheets, and Clarus is looming over him, every bit a shield. 

“Firstly,” Clarus says, catching Regis’s mouth in a quick kiss, “there are certainly no other princes I have ever taken to bed, save for yourself. And second, I believe this is your bed, Your Highness.”

Regis laughs too, and lets himself melt into Clarus’s kiss. He can feel his lover against his thigh, not yet hard again, but steadily building towards it once again.

“No other princes?” Regis asks with mock surprise. “How is this possible?”

“There’s but one who holds my heart.” Clarus practically gathers Regis up in his arms. Then in a playful manner, he says, “You also happen to be the last prince in all of Eos.”

“Flattery hidden within truth.” Regis throws his arms around the back of Clarus’s neck, pressing them together fully. 

A little more seriously, Clarus says, “That which you would desire from me, leaves me at a loss every day.”

Regis questions, “This isn’t about your hair again, is it?”

Clarus has started to go gray. It’s something that happens quite predictably to the members of House Amicitia, and at twenty-five, Clarus is teetering dangerously on being so. It’s something that makes him self-conscious, and Regis knows he hates it. But the silvery strands are beautiful to Regis, just like everything else that is Clarus. 

“No,” Clarus says, and sounds honest. But he also doesn’t elaborate. 

In the dim of the room, Regis runs his fingers along the expanse of Clarus’s chest, and up to his strong shoulders. They’ve been sharing a bed for a while now, far over a month, and Regis finds himself destitute over the idea of going to bed alone now. Clarus is a generous lover, one that Regis isn’t sure his young, selfish body deserves. But Clarus is his all the same. And soon to be gone.

“When do you have to leave?” Regis asks, expecting at any second that Clarus will be gone from his side. 

“With the sun,” Clarus responds, sounding just as dejected at the idea of leaving. 

Regis sighs, and comments, “Going in the day to practice killing daemons. That sounds absurd.”

Clarus’s fingers smooth out the skin that bunches at Regis’s forehead when he frowns. “I’m only traveling during the day. I’ll be doing the daemon hunting at night.” He looks worn thin all of the sudden. “There’s something wrong with the daemons now. They’ve always existed. Ever since the starscourage.But they’ve been manageable, or at least avoidable, to the people living beyond the city walls. But now? Things are different now.”

A serious mood falls between them, and Regis comments, “The daemons are stronger than they’ve ever been. I can feel it.” It’s in the ever-stronger pull of the crystal. As his father begins to relinquish control of the crystal, or at least dominance of it, Regis shoulders more of its burden. And in turn, he feels more. Through the crystal, he feels the daemons. 

“We know how to fight men—I know how to fight men,” Clarus says. “But daemons?” He sighs. “I need special training for that. So I need to go. You know it isn’t because I want to.”

No, and Regis also isn’t a child about to lose his favorite play item. He should be able to relinquish his Shield for a short while, without making himself seem like a petulant child. 

But Regis has learned to listen to his gut, and Clarus being sent away, his mother and other members of the elite crownsguard as well, feels wrong. The city will be far from unprotected, and the wall holds firm. But Regis can’t deny the feeling in his stomach.

Neither can he avoid saying, “Forty-one days.”

“Don’t,” Clarus nearly begs. 

Regis ignores him to say, “Forty-one days and you choose to spend at least eleven of them in the Cave of Nostal, fighting demons.”

Clarus rolls off him to the side, but Regis can’t bring himself to regret his words. 

It feels even more unfair now, since he’s taken Clarus into his bed, that their time together is quickly approaching its end. Regis is frightened he won’t know what to do with himself when the times comes, or worse, he won’t be able to follow through with the thing he’s promised himself he must.

How does one let go of the other person who makes them feel complete? Regis hasn’t figured this out yet.

Forty-one days. 

Forty-one until the wedding, and Clarus is married off. 

Forty-one until Clarus moves from the room next to his in the Citadel, from Regis, and takes up a home with his new bride. Then will come the focus on producing heirs, and nothing will be the same again. Clarus says Regis will always come first. He’s a man of his duty and of honor. But Regis is quite certain the first time Clarus holds his newborn, everything will have already changed. 

“I wish you wouldn’t count the days,” Clarus says into his shoulder, lips at Regis’s skin.

“I wish a lot of things,” Regis replies.

Clarus offers, “The Cave of Nostal is a unique area. Daemons there can often manifest themselves in the depths of the cave, during the day. It’ll allow for us to train in a manner of different ways, and be competent to protect the crown from daemons when we return.”

Regis poses, “When have you or the line of Amicitia had difficulty protecting the crown?”

“When have the daemons ever been so aggressive and numerous before?”

Regis wants to be irritated at the answering of his question with another, but Clarus’s counter point stands. Not since the starscourage itself, have daemons manifested so prevalently, and so aggressively. Something is changing. Something is happening. And whatever it is, Regis knows it’ll be in his lifetime, when the issue comes to fruition. 

But forty-one days. 

“She spoke with me the other day,” Regis says. 

“Who?”

Regis sets his arms loosely around Clarus. “Your bride to be. She asked for an audience, in private, and I granted it. I thought she wasn’t even supposed to return to Insomnia until the wedding, but she has, and she made the request.”

Clarus looks tense as he asks, “What did she want?”

“Hardly to make a territorial claim,” Regis says. And why should she? Marriages are often nothing but temporary contracts meant to produce legitimate children. The woman need feel no love for Clarus, and he nor for her. 

“She asked for duties in the Citadel,” Regis tells Clarus. “And she asked that after your heir is born, that she be allowed to resume her previous duties outside the walls of Insomnia. There was no mention of you, and there wouldn’t have been. She is very aware of her station and mine. I granted her request. I think it’s fair, unless you ask otherwise of me.”

Clarus bristles, “With the baby left to the care of nannies.” 

Regis doesn’t know what to say. His own mother was far more hands on with him than queens typically are. In the noble houses of Lucis, children are often reared by hired help. Regis was raised different, and he and Aulea will raise their own child in the same vein. But clearly this isn’t a sentiment held by Clarus’s future wife. 

Trying to steer the subject, Regis asks, “You’ll send word if you’re delayed in some way? Or if you run into issue?”

“Of course.” Clarus kisses him then, harder and needier than their kisses often are. “But nothing will happen. And in eleven days, I’ll be back. Things will go back to normal then. We’ll go back to normal.”

Clarus’s hands move down to cup Regis, and then stroke him to hardness, and Regis loses himself in the passion he shares with Clarus.

He’s fallen back asleep by the time Clarus leaves, but when he does wake, the scent of Clarus clings to Regis’s sheets, and for the moment, it’s enough. 

Clarus is four days gone, four long, tense days, when Regis gets his first correspondence from him.

“It’s worse than thought,” Weskham tells him, eyes soaking the words and relaying them to Regis. “Daemons skirt the line of dusk and dawn, and when they do appear, there are two, maybe three times as many of them as before.”

“Has Clarus found a reason for this?”

Weskham shakes his head. “No. But he said people are scared. They’re huddled together in settlements and afraid to go out sometimes. He says the number of victims is much higher than anticipated, and a solution needs to be at least discussed by the time he and the other crownsguard return.

Regis steeps his fingers and admits, “I don’t know what kind of solution there can be.” 

Before he can think on the matter any further, a blast shakes the Citadel. It’s so strong, so concussive, that Regis hears windows shattering. The building itself, built like a mountain, shakes like it may crumble.

“Regis!” Weskham practically dives for him, dragging him out of his chair and low to the ground. 

A half second later the crownsguard burst into his office, searching frantically for him, finally finding him crouched on the floor.

“What the hell is going on?” Regis demands. He stumbles up to his feet and looks down at the world below the Citadel. There’s a big plume of black smoke rising up from the streets, but Regis’s office is so high up it’s hard to see what’s going on.

“Your Highness,” a crownsguard says, advancing on him sharply. “You need to come with us. We have explicit orders from the King to take you the vault.”

Regis balks. The vault? The vaults is meant to be a last ditch effort, and a saferoom of sorts. Kings who lock themselves away in there, understand it as a last resort.

“Your protection is our utmost priority,” the crownsguard tries again.

Regis moves to protest, “I’m not going—” But then a bigger explosion, certainly bigger than the first, ripples through the Citadel. Regis’s window blows inward. There’s heat and pressure, and then there’s glass. Regis tries to get his arms up in time, and Weskham is all but jerkin his arm out of his socket again, but it’s too little, too late. 

Glass cuts across Regis’s skin with ease, slashing his flesh and arcing blood. Regis topples to the floor, a half dozen bodies piling over him, and his vision goes red. 

“Get to the vault!” a crownsguard shout.

Regis is not going to the vault. He’s not going because there, crawling up the side of the Citadel, inching its way into the room already, is a daemon.

It’s just after the lunch hour, with the sun high in the sky, and there are daemons out. What’s more is that the King’s protective wall glints over Insomnia, and still there are daemons in the city. 

“Your Highness!”

In a flash of power, pulled directly from the crystal, a weapon of kings materializes into Regis’s hand. A rush of strength comes with the sword, and Regis stands. Next to him, specially crafted and magic infused pistols flash into Weskham’s hands, and together the two of them spring towards the daemon.

“How bad is the city?” Regis asks when the daemon is disposed of, disappearing into a mist of ash. He rounds on the group of crownsguard who are watching him with awe and a touch of fear. Blood drips its way into Regis’s vision, but he pushes it away. His head this throbbing, and his body is tingling, but Regis is focused. He demands again, “How may daemons are in the city, and how bad is the damage?”

At least the crownsguard aren’t trying to evacuate him anymore. Instead, the captain of the unit tells Regis, “There have been at least a half dozen breeches, Your Highness. The crownsguard is evacuating the Citadel’s priority citizens. The city guard are attempting to handle the daemon threat.”

Regis stares down at the chaos unfolding in the streets. He sees various types of daemons, a too inexperienced city guard force, and people being hurt. Killed. 

Weskham demands, “Is the King safe?”

“Yes,” comes the quick reply. “But more important by the King’s word himself, is the safety of Insomnia’s heir.”

The crownsguard, which is far better equipped to deal with the daemon threat than the regular city guard who handle more traffic incidents than anything else, are evacuating priority Citadel citizens. Priority.

Regis won’t have it. 

The King’s position is undisputable, but no one is more important than anyone else. Regis won’t abandon his people to the daemons while he himself hides away in the vault.

“Weskham,” Regis says, turning towards him.

Weskham hefts his pistols up, and says bluntly, “I know what you’re going to say. My parents are out there. I’m read when you are.”

The captain of the crownsguard present pales. “Your Highness, you can’t—”

Regis cuts him off, ordering, “Evacuate the Citadel, if that was the King’s order. Then join me on the streets. We have to protect the people. The city guard will do their best, but they haven’t had the specialized training that you have. Weskham and I are capable, but we’ll need you out there too, especially since Astra and Clarus Amicitia are out of the city.”

“Will we be a match for the daemons?”

Regis gives him a dark look, then scolds, “That’s an inconsequential question, Captain. Those people down there are our responsibility. We will do whatever it takes to protect them, and give them time to escape. Do you understand?”

For the first time, Regis feels more like a king than a prince preparing for such a station.

The crownsguard bow deeply to him, then rush off to complete their task.

Weskham, peering out over the edge of the shattered window asks, “How the hell did daemons get into Insomnia this time of day?”

Regis feels the burn of Weskham pulling magic from him for his guns, and lets it flow freely. Further out, he can feel Clarus at a distance, linked to him through the magic, none of the wiser of what’s happening. 

“I don’t know,” Regis says, voice hard like steel. “But all that matters is that we kill them all.”

Weskham gives a sharp nod. “Ready to go?”

An edge of amusement can’t help but sneak its way into Regis as he asks, “Ever warped before?”

Weskham frowns. “Isn’t that when you throw yourself through the air and …” Weskham’s eyes go wide.

Regis says, “Brace yourself, okay?”

They hit the ground running. 

Weskham looks like he wants to vomit everywhere, but valiantly holds himself together as they press into a veritable war zone. All around them people are screaming and running everywhere. Daemons are swarming, explosions are occurring, and for just a second, there’s too much for Regis to focus on.

Weskham shoulders into him, popping off quick shots with his pistol, and calls out, “You okay?”

A second more and Regis has his bearings. 

There are more explosions happening around him, but it’s the city guard who are responsible, discharging their weapons in the direction of daemons, hitting buildings and cars. 

“Those idiots!” Weskham snaps neck to Regis, and Regis knows he’s come to the same conclusion. 

Regis orders, “Go stop them, Weskham. They’re doing more damage than good.”

Weskham gives a sharp nod and dashes away, and Regis turns his full attention on the daemons. There are clusters of them about, and Regis readies his weapon, pulling more heavily from the crystal than ever before. 

He throws himself into battle.

This is what he’s been training for. This is the moment. This is the justification for the dozens and dozens of hours spent with Clarus practicing his swordsmanship, and building his endurance.

Because fighting daemons is unlike anything else in the world.

Firstly, they’re fast. They’re far faster than Regis is initially expecting. At least the smaller ones are fast, moving in bunches that make it hard to target a single enemy, and they’re light footed in the worst way possible.They cluster around him too easily, and distract him so the first time a bigger daemon, purple and muscled and heinous looking, plows into him, Regis never sees it coming.

But it’s a learning curve. As people scramble around him, Regis warps to higher ground. Weskham is in the distance, directing the city guard with Regis’s gifted authority, and the explosions are slowing. 

One at a time, Regis tells himself, and then he launches a warpstrike down to the nearest daemon.

It’s like an intricate dance, one that will lose Regis his head if he misses a step. He darts left and then right, rolls out of the way, warps up high, and strikes with deadly precision.

His muscles start to burn, sweat and blood mix on his forehead, and still Regis pulls more and more from the crystal. He lets out blasts of fire, shoots shards of ice, and slashes down in perfect sword arcs that blend perfectly with the magic.

Regis is always tied to the people who are tied to the crystal. He feels first and foremost his father. He feels the master of the crystal, if the crystal can have a mortal one. Then he feels Clarus, and Weskham, whom Regis has personally tied to the crystal through himself. But then he feels more. He feels Astra, through his father, and the other trusted crownsguard that have access to the power of the crystal. Only the line of Lucis can manifest the crystal’s power, but many can use it when allowed.

And as Regis takes more, fighting harder and hard to dispose of the creatures attacking the helpless citizens, he feels his father and others start to relinquish. They pull less from the crystal, so he can pull more. Maybe it’s a conscientious decision, or maybe the crystal is manipulating the ebb and flow of power. But Regis feels nearly intoxicated with power. He’s never had access to so much before. 

Before the end, Weskham is back at his side, and they fight back to back. Weskham is nearly intuitive in his ability to cover Regis from a distance, then close ranks when necessary. When Regis falls, Weskham hefts him back up. And when a particularly mammoth looking daemon tries to reign fists down on Weskham, Regis is able to shield him. 

“They’re retreating!”

A voice from the city guard shouts up, crownsguard now mixed in with them, and Regis whips around. After twenty minutes of fighting, most of the daemons are gone. Regis is exhausted and bloody, with sweat soaking through his clothes, but most of the daemons are dead. Still, some of them are obviously retreating. They’re making a break for it, like a survival instinct has kicked in. 

Regis goes to give chase right away. The streets are mostly clear now from civilians, and it seems like the city guard and crownsguard have a firm idea of how to work together. So Regis goes to give chase. The last thing they need is a stray daemon getting into someone’s home.

Regis makes it half a dozen steps before the crystal pulses hard. The flow of energy from it nearly cuts off completely, and Regis crashes down hard to the asphalt below. He feels a swift kick in the ribs, and for a half second thinks it’s actually happening. It takes him a little longer to realize the air being squeezed out of his lungs is only the loss of the steady flow of power from the crystal.

His father is reigning him back in.

Because, Regis feels suddenly, shoulders shaking with an effort to just keep himself upright, he’s nearly used too much. He’s nearly destroyed himself, channeling so much power through his body at once.

Falling to his knees next to Regis, Weskham practically holds him up and demands, “What’s wrong?”

Regis looks up to see crownsguard and city guard jogging towards him. The streets have gone silent and the remaining daemons are gone. The fight is over.

Struggling to get a full gasp of air into his lungs, Regis tries to assure, “It’s nothing. I’m fine. It’s okay.”

But it feels like the icy hand of death is reaching into him, pulling at his heart, trying to rip it out. 

“Your Highness!” the crownsguard are calling out. 

Regis says quietly to Weskham, “Help me up?”

By the time the crownsguard reach him, Regis is on his feet, and Weskham is even making it look like he’s doing it all by himself. But the truth is Regis is liable to tip over and not be able to get up, if Weskham’s hand moves from between his shoulder blades. 

Regis turns to Weskham, somberly, and says, “It’s time to go see the king.”

King Mors sees them right away, in the throne room, looking shaken. He sits on his throne, radiating apprehension, more than a hint of anger there, too.

Regis stands before his king, battered, bruised, bleeding, but never with more conviction in his life. Weskham lurks some paces behind him, and a handful of his father’s most trusted, elite councilmen and women are present. But for Regis, the room consists of just himself and his father.

His father’s voice is like ice and venom when he speaks, words echoing when he says, “I issued a direct order to take shelter in the vault.”

A king’s words echo in the room.

Regis says back, “I had to—”

“You do as you’re told!” the man’s voice thunders, and Regis visibly flinches. He’s never felt such anger from his father, never such …such disappointment. “Who do you think you are, Regis Lucis Caelum?”

Regis clenches his hands behind his back to stop them shaking. “I’m … I …” He doesn’t know how to start. He doesn’t know the right words to say. 

His father continues on, “You were to go to the vault. You were to remain there. You were to let the city guard deal with the direct threat to Insomnia.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, ” Regis finally manages, “but by the time I was down there, fighting on the ground, it was clear to see that the city guard had no idea what they were dealing with. They were carelessly discharging their weapons. The city guard were responsible for most of the initial damage. I had to step in.”

Ruthlessly, the king grounds out, “You had to do as you were told.”

“I had a responsibility,” Regis cuts back daringly. He dips his head in reverence, but he doesn’t back down. “Those were our people out there dying, being protected by an ineffective guard. I had to help, there was no question of it. I will never let our people suffer needlessly, not when I can do something.”

The king’s fingers tap against the arm of throne soundlessly. 

“Daemons,” Regis cokes out. “Daemons were in the city in broad daylight. I had to—”

“You are the heir of the throne!” The king is on his feet then, and the room grows ever more tense. “How you can conduct yourself so frivolously is a shame to me, and a shame to Insomnia.”

Now Regis is the one shaking, and he challenges, “It would be more shameful for me to sit locked in a vault, protected, while my people die for me.” He feels like he’s gone too far, insulted his father and king, and leveled a disrespectful charge against the man who’s raised him in a room full of respected peers.But Regis can’t take it back. And he can’t pretend like the words don’t ring true to him. 

“Do you understand how indispensable you are?” The king asks, his words softer now. He almost seems bereft to Regis who watches the flicker of emotion across his face. “A million people might die for you, and it would be a worthy trade. You are a future king. You are the heir to this throne. Insomnia has no future without you.”

“Insomnia should have no future with a king who doesn’t act to save its people when he’s capable of it.”

The king huffs. “Capable.” He’s clearly taking in the sight of Regis, with dried blood on his face and the way he’s swaying on his feet. 

Regis turns to ask Weskham, “Did you learn how many daemons escaped us?”

Weskham nods. “Six. And that’s six too many, roaming the streets of Insomnia.”

“A city-wide alarm has been sounded,” one of the king’s councilmen speaks up, some compassion in his eyes to Regis, or at least understanding. “The people know to stay indoors, Your Highness.”

A different voice cuts in, from the same cluster of people, “We’ve already received reports that the daemons have fled the city. They’ve headed into the Cleigne region.”

Regis frowns. “They passed so easily through the wall?”

Wearily, the kings says, “The wall is meant to keep our human enemies out. Daemons are different manner of breed.”

“Father.” Regis takes a firm step towards the man. “I ask your blessing to go after those daemons. They have to be stopped, and I’m equipped to do so.”

“Absolutely not.” His father returns to his throne wearily. “I believe you’ve done enough, Regis.”

“There are six demons out there!” Regis’s voice starts to rise. “They’re roaming around, and our people out there have no idea what’s coming their way. The kind of damage six daemons in the daylight could do to those people out there, is astronomical.”

His father shakes his head. “Our focus is here, Regis, on Insomnia. We need to discover the reasons these daemons were able to attack in the city, in daylight. We need to rally our people. And you will stay put.”

Regis bristles. He can’t. It goes against the moral fiber in him. It goes against the kind of king Regis wants to be.

Quietly, he reminds his father, “Those people out there in Cleigne, and Duscae, and all the other regions, they’re our people too. They deserve our protection no less than the people here in Insomnia.

Some days, Regis worries his father has given up on protecting the whole of the continent. Some days, Regis worries the people out there know that. 

Regis can’t stand for that.

Like a kingly decree, Regis hears his father say, “We value all of our people, Regis. But Insomnia is the crown city. Insomnia is the last vestige for the line of Lucian kings. Insomnia is our priority.”

Regis will not be a king who allows some of his people to feel less important than others. If there’s something he can do, he will. And right now, he’ll protect all his people.

Readying himself for a backlash, Regis states openly, “I asked for your blessing to leave, Father, not your permission.”

The king looks gob smacked. 

Regis doesn’t balk. 

“I’ve said no,” the king says warningly. “You would disobey a direct order from your king?”

Regis nods slowly. “Until you take the title from me, Father, as your heir, those are still my people out there. They are the people I’m sworn to protect, and if I can do something, then there’s no question of my actions. I won’t be a prince who sits idly by. I can’t.”

His father looks at him for some time. Truly looks at him. Regis feels like his king is judging the worth of him, or maybe just his heart. 

“Answer my question.”

Regis’s chest clenches up, and then he admits, “Yes, father. Yes, my king. If need be, I’ll disobey your orders and go anyway. To save lives, I have to.” Of course Regis barely feels like he’ll be standing for a couple minutes more, but he has to be firm. He can’t back down, no matter the consequences.

His father poses, “And what if you fall? What if Insomnia loses its heir? You are the only hope Insomnia has.”

“He’s not going alone.” Weskham steps forward in a surprising way, and rushes into a deep bow. He holds it maybe too long, reeking of fear, and then adds, “Your Majesty. Prince Regis is my friend. I respect him and trust him. And if he’s going out there, I’m going to watch his back.”

The king doesn’t exactly look comforted. 

Regis is both humbled and thankful for Weskham.

“Clarus Amicitia is out there,” Regis says. “He’s less than a day away.” The three of them can handle six daemons easily. 

The king’s eyes narrow.

Regis dares to move even closer to the throne, scaling the massive stairs with trepidation but without pause. And then when he’s a dozen feet away, he says so only the two of them can hear, “I will be king one day.” He knows it’s an empty threat for anyone, including his father or Regis himself, to say otherwise. “I need to prove to my people, the people I’m sworn to protect, that they can trust me. They can rely on me.”

There’s a tenseness around his father’s eyes, and the king’s skin is worn so thin now his blue veins are nearly overtaking his hands.Regis is instantly regretful for the pressure and discomfort he’s giving his father. He’s only adding to the man’s condition.

“You will be king,” his father agrees. “But only if you live long enough, and don’t get yourself killed in some admirable but foolish attempt to prove your worth.”

“This isn’t about any of that,” Regis says with finality. “It has always been about our people. And are we to be kings that think otherwise? Are we to be Iedolas Aldercapt?”

His father replies lowly, “That’s rather dirty, Regis.”

“Let me go,” Regis pleads. “Let me dispose of these daemons, and then let me come home.”

Silence fills the room, and no one talks. No one barely breathes. 

Regis nearly startles when his father says, “You’ll take Cor.”

Regis’s eyes go wide. “He’s fifteen.”

“He’s already an accomplished swordsman, and far better than you, no matter how confident you are in yourself. Until you reach Clarus, he’ll serve as your bodyguard and council.”

Regis nods slowly.

“And you’ll need an escort who’s overly familiar with the area. Someone who—”

Regis breaks in, “I have the perfect mechanic in mind.”

The king’s eyebrows go high on his forehead. “Mechanic?”

This is how Cid comes back to Insomnia.


	8. Chapter Eight

“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look okay. Damnit.”

In the privacy of the King’s antechamber, Regis holds a small, handheld device that projects a tiny square of a picture of Clarus. For the moment, it’s the best means they have for communicating, and they haven’t got much time to waste

“I said I’m fine,” Regis says in an exacerbated way, but he’s anything from it. Regis knows it, and he knows Clarus knows it. It shows on his face, and on his body, and certainly in his mood. But he’s apt to be a king, and he will hold himself accordingly. “You should know that we lost a couple civilians. Nearly a dozen, actually. But we saved many, many more. The people will recover.”

Clarus looks frustrated. “If I may say so, Your Highness, you’re a complete idiot.”

Fondly, Regis manages a smile. “I’m certain that’s what my father thinks, too.”

“What were you even doing, throwing yourself into danger like that? You’re not expendable.You’re the future King of Insomnia.”

Regis counters, “I’m also the protector of my people. I was the one best suited to manage a daemon attack, and I wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing. The crystal endows me with power, and a call to arms. I did what I was supposed to do, as a prince and a future king.”

“People are born to die for you,” Clarus says back almost angrily. In the background Regis can just make out a flurry of activity. Clarus and his group are picking up their things in a rush, hurrying back to Insomnia. Regis plans to meet up with Clarus in roughly a day, but not the others. “There are some instances where it’s your duty to run and hide and let others take the fall for you. You know I appreciate your sentiment of not prioritizing the citizens, but you’re in a class all your own. Regis, you could have died.”

“You trained me.” Regis is just waiting for the final word from Cor before they depart. It should be any second. “You trained me to hold my own, and the crystal certainly gives me an advantage. I had to fight, Clarus. Weskham watched my back. And together, we drove the daemons out of Insomnia.” And into a civilian population, unfortunately. But that issue is soon to be handled as well.

“I should have been there,” Clarus says in a subdued way. “I wasn’t there when you needed me most.”

Regis tells him, “Just be ready to go when we get to you. Cid is going to be hauling to get there by tomorrow morning.”

Clarus chuckles a little.“I still can’t believe the old man is coming back to Insomnia. He said he was done with the city, no matter how fond he is of you.”

Regis sneaks out, “He doesn’t even write me back half the time.”

Clarus doesn’t look fooled. “That’s more than he writes anyone else. He likes you, which is crazy because he doesn’t like anyone, and I guess then it does make sense why he’s willing to come back to Insomnia again.”

“I trust him,” Regis says. “And I need people at my back I can trust.” Cid is probably also the foremost authority on the area that the daemons are escaping into. He’ll see them safely through it, and the back to Insomnia. 

“I’ll be ready when you get here,” Clarus insists.

The door to the antechamber cracks open and Weskham’s face peeks in. He spots Regis and says, “Cor’s got the car ready. We’ll go whenever you say so.”

Appreciatively, Regis nods. Then he turns to Clarus and says, “Cor’s been coordinating with a small group of civilians—the Hunters. They’re only a couple dozen strong right now in each region, but they’ve got room to grow, and without any input from the crown, they’ve been organizing to fight daemons. They’ve got potential, and there should be a branch extension in your immediate area. I want you to get in contact, appraise them of the situation, and see about getting the Hunters mobilized. Only a half dozen daemons got out, but a civilian population can’t handle one, let alone six. The Hunters can do damage control until we get there.”

Clarus gives an affirmative. “Got it.”

“Your mother is going to be spearheading the investigation as to how this happened in the first place,” Regis tells him. “This can’t happen again. We need to figure out how the daemons got through the wall, and what kind of daemons can manifest in broad daylight.”

Before Regis can end the communication, Clarus asks, “Is it wise to bring Cor out into this? He’s still very young, no matter how skilled he is. He’s a child by our standards.”

“The King ordered it,” Regis provides. “As a condition for me doing this. So we’re bringing him along. I have to go now. Be ready for when we arrive.I’d like for this to go as smoothly as possible.”

Clarus says, “Take care of yourself, Prince Regis, until I’m there to watch after you.”

Regis laughs a little. “I haven’t needed you to watch after me for a long time, Sir Clarus.”

Clarus gives him a wondrous look. “You’ll always need me.”

If that isn’t the truth, Regis doesn’t know what is. 

“Regis.”

Regis half expects to see Weskham back to prod him along. For not having any formal training as a steward, Weskham is terribly good at keeping Regis to a set time schedule. Instead of Weskham, however, Regis’s father, King Mors, is waiting. 

Regis feels his stomach drop. He hasn’t been in private with his father since the incident in the throne room.

“Father …”

Regis dares to move closer to him, and then bows deeply at the waist. His father has never struck him. He’s never been spanked, or even gripped too hard. Regis’s father has never been that kind of man. But neither has Regis ever shown such blatant disrespect, and not just to his father, but to his king.

“Father, I …”

“You’ve embarrassed me,” his father says sharply, and without pause. “In front of our most trusted allies and confidants, the strongest council this crown has ever seen, you’ve embarrassed me. You’ve embarrassed yourself. You’ve embarrassed the line of Lucis.”

Regis flinches. “I know. I’m so sorry. I should have thought my words out more clearly. I should have spoken with more respect, more tact, and more care.”

“You challenged my word as king. You placed acceptance for others in the matter of disobedience. You set the poorest example a prince can for his people.”

Each word is like the sting of a cane coming down against Regis’s back. Each feels worse than the last, and Regis is beyond shamed. 

Then unexpectedly, with a softness to his words, his father touches his shoulder, bringing him up from his bow, and says, “You’re so much like your mother you frighten me at times.”

Regis blinks wide eyes of shock. “I’m like mother?”

That doesn’t seem like a truth at all. Regis’s mother is fierce in nearly every way, and Regis has always been a little too complacent. He’s always recognized his place as the future king, and has resolved to act in a kingly manner. Half the citizens of Insomnia must think he’s a puppet prince, with how little he steps out of line.

“You are,” the king insists, and his other hand comes up to Regis’s far shoulder. His father holds him at arm’s length, but it still feels intimate. “You have conviction, Regis. You’re very kind, very considerate, and far more intelligent than I will ever be. But like her, you have a sense of righteousness. You have the ability to look past yourself, and to act with integrity. Your mother is the strongest and courageous person I know. And you are most certainly her son.”

Regis takes a long, shuddering breath. “I was still out of line.”

“You’re an awkward prince,” his father admits with an amused chuckle. “But from that you will become the most magnificent king the line of Lucis has ever seen. You will be far greater than me, or any that came before.”

Regis doesn’t know what to say. 

“In the end, it may be you who saves Insomnia.”

Regis practically lunges forward to hug his father. He wants to choke out his appreciation, his love, and how he’s needed to hear these words, even if he didn’t know until now. But he can’t get his mouth working to form the words, and his chest is all seized up with air anyway. 

“Go,” his father orders him, hand palming the back of his head. “Go and do what a king must to protect his people.”

This ringing endorsement from this father isn’t something Regis has dared to have. Not one spoken with so much confidence. 

“Go see your mother afterwards,” the king adds, much to Regis’s surprise. “She’s been asking for you again. I think she wants to give you something, something she doesn’t trust to be transported without her watchful gaze. So go and destroy the daemons that dared to attack our citizens in the crown city itself, then go see your mother, and come home afterwards. Trust the men at your side to keep you safe, do not risk yourself unnecessarily, and know that you make me proud, my son.”

Regis hugs him once more so tightly he nearly loses feeling in his arms. And for the first time, Regis feels worthy to inherit his father’s crown.

“Ready?” Weskham asks when Regis finally makes his appearance. Cid is standing by the front of the car with his arms crossed over his chest, a sour look on his face. And Cor, who’s always been a little too serious, doesn’t look much happier, face full of focus and determination. But Weskham’s got a smile for Regis, and that’s enough. 

“I’ve spoken to Clarus,” Regis relays to them. “He’ll be ready when we reach him.”

Cid calls out, “Then stop holding us up! Get yer butt in the car and let’s go.”

There’s a hint of fondness in Cid’s tone, enough to make Regis smile, and he climbs into the back of the car without fuss, with Cor settling in next to him. 

“Now this feels familiar,” Regis jokes to Cid as soon as they clear the last main checkpoint in Insomnia. He braces a hand on the seat in front of him and pulls himself closer to Cid. “Admit it, old man, you missed me.”

Cid scowls at him through the rear view mirror. 

Regis sits back in his seat in a pleased way. 

There’s a different dynamic in the car, this time. 

Weskham definitely indulges Regis, making easy, lighthearted talk with him, doing his best to keep Regis’s mind from the destruction Insomnia has so recently suffered. But Cid grips the wheel a little too tightly, and Cor is exceptionally tightlipped, other than to say in a raw way, “Please Your Highness, don’t hang out of the car like that,” whenever Regis does. 

“Got a better chance of teaching a cat to talk,” Cid mutters from the front seat, but he certainly isn’t the one telling Regis what to do and what not to.

Regis heaves himself up in the car, the top down in the face of decent weather, and sits himself up on the back of the car, his feet hanging down into the seat. “You need to lighten up, Cor,” Regis says. No fifteen year old should be as serious as Cor is.

“It’s my head if anything happens to you,” Cor reminds. 

“Clarus used to say the same thing,” Regis tells him. “If I didn’t listen to him, I’m certainly not going to listen to you.”

The wind in his hair, the scenery flying past him, and the unmistakable smell of nature, is all Regis has at the moment. He’s damn well going to enjoy it. 

Cor presses, “If Sophiar brakes suddenly at any time …”

Weskham comments, “Regis is pretty good at warping, and he’s got some amazing reflexes. I’d say the odds are on his side, if that happens.”

And testily, Cid snaps, “This ain’t the first prince I’ve been behind the wheel of a car for. Probably won’t be the last.”

Cor is still obviously sulking, but Regis ignores him. Right now isn’t about Cor. It’s only about one thing. 

The roads are worse than Regis remembers them, and even Cid says sorely about how many of them are in desperate need of new paving. So they get slowed down significantly, and have to make camp before even reaching Clarus. 

Cor pitches the tent like it’s second nature, though how a city boy knows how to pitch a tent is the real question. Then Cid and Regis go out in search of firewood, for the dinner they’ve corralled Weskham into making for them.

Weskham doesn’t cook often these days. He’s much too distracted with keeping Regis to his time table, and it definitely feels to Regis like Weskham’s heart isn’t in it so much anymore. Weskham just honestly is a better host than anything else, really. 

They sleep under the stars, or at least Cid does. Cid sleeps hard and fast, in a chair by the fire, arms crossed over his chest. Regis is a little envious. Sleep doesn’t come for Regis, with too many thoughts in his head. And with Cor prowling around on watch, and Weskham fidgeting in a most decidedly awake way, the night passes slowly. 

But they get to Clarus by the next day.

Regis feels a flush of relief at the sight of the man.Clarus looks absolutely no different than the last time Regis saw him, and Regis’s feelings for him have not waned in the least bit. 

In a perfect world, Regis could stride over to him, take Clarus’s face in his hands, and kiss him stupid. This is no such world.

“Your Highness,” Clarus says, eyes raking over him slowly, deliberately, sizing. 

“Clarus,” Regis says, and he hopes enough passes between them in the moment. There’s still so much guilt on Clarus’s face, the kind Regis doesn’t want to be there.

Clarus’s attention pivots to Cor with just a second of hesitation, and he commends, “Cor, good job on keeping his Highness in one piece.”

Cor says in a grumpy way, “It wasn’t easy, Sir Amicitia, with his Highness’s perchance for leaning out of moving cars.”

Clarus laughs in a deep, meaningful way. “He does have that poor habit.”

“He is standing right here,” Regis reminds, but without malice.

Curiously, Cid cuts in, “Been working with the local Hunters?”

Clarus gives a firm nod. “They’re more like a rag-tag vigilante group at this point, but they’re good trackers, decent with weapons, and best of all, they’ve already got a lead on our wayward daemons.”

Curiously, Weskham asks, “As in they’re still grouped together?”

“From the sound of it,” Clarus replies. “Daemons will sometimes roam in packs. These seem to be doing that, which is actually luck for us. It makes them easier to find all at once, and to engage just once.”

“Then we wipe them out and go home,” Cor says in an agreeable way. 

“A pack means a tougher fight,” Cid breaks in. 

Even now, Regis feels the power of the crystal practically sparking in his fingers. He tells the small group, “I’m stronger than ever—I mean my tie to the crystal is stronger than ever, and by extension, that means all of you are, too.”

In a haunted way, Clarus reminds, “That just means you’re stretching yourself ever more thin.”

Definitively, Cor says, “No, it means the crystal is preparing for you to be king, and soon.”

Cid scoffs, and Clarus gives Cor a dangerous kind of look.

“That’s what His Majesty the King, said,” Cor says, turning his full attention to Regis. “The crystal chooses who is King. The crystal controls the flow of power to the line of Lucis. The King thinks that you’ll ascend the throne very shortly, by will of the crystal.”

Regis accepts he will be king. He’s always accepted this. But so soon? Regis doesn’t want to be king any time soon. He just wants to be Regis Lucis Caelum for as long as possible.For little a little while longer. 

“None of that matters,” Regis says, breaking their focus. “What I’m saying is that the five of us together, can handle any threat, even a clustered group of daemons. Weskham and I handled the bulk of the daemons in Insomnia. And simply put, the five of us are better prepared than any of the Hunters out here.”

Arms crossed over his broad chest, Clarus tells him, “Speaking of, I’ve got someone for you to meet.”

The leader of the Hunters, or at least the division closest to them, is named Sia Redwell. She’s certainly gruff looking, and doesn’t seem impressed by him in the least bit, but she still shakes Regis’s hand and explains to him the issues they’ve been having with daemons in the area.

In a clear way, she says, “We haven’t had any sightings of daemons out after sunrise, and we’ve got our people on alert, but I’m not calling you a liar, either.”

“Something about these daemons,” Regis muses, “seemed different. They were stronger than daemons are meant to be, at least these types. Something is changing on the daemon front in general. But our priority now is to catch these daemons, destroy them, and make it safe for people to go about their day once more.”

She nods back to him. “Then let’s get you on that trail.”

The evidence is easy enough to find, for both Clarus and Cor who know what to look for, and Cid who leads them easily through Cleigne to Duscae. 

By the time they’re settling in for the night, hot on the trail of their wayward daemons, Cor mumbles, “I don’t like how far they’ve gotten across Lucis.”

Weskham wonders, “Just where are they going?”

“Towards something,” Regis says pensively. “Something is drawing them.”

Clarus asks, “You think?”

Regis knows. He can feel it in his bones. 

In the wee hours of the morning, just as the sun is breaking over the mountains in the distance, and before anyone is really up and moving, Clarus touches Regis’s elbow deftly and asks, “Are you really okay? No lying for anyone’s sake. Only the truth.” The two of them are standing to the far edge of their camp and aren’t in any danger of being interrupted. The shadows hide them. 

“Of course I’m not okay,” Regis says in a bereft way. “Daemons were in Insomnia. People died. What’s there to be okay about?”

“I meant you,” Clarus says fondly. He brings his fingers up to Regis’s temple, where bandages peek out from under his hairline. There’ll be scars there in the end, and evidence of his brush with death. But Regis isn’t a vain person, and he doubts Clarus cares much what he looks like, either. “Not just this, either. You used the crystal for a substantial amount of time. You used a lot of its power. Neither one of us has to openly state what that prolonged use of the crystal does to the line of Lucis.”

A small smile plays on Regis’s mouth. “The irony, right?”

Clarus’s fingers move to trail the curve of his jaw. “Tell me honestly, are you okay?”

“I’m always okay.” Regis takes a steadying breath. A second later he allows himself some weakness, and tips his head onto Clarus’s shoulder. It’s hardly a princely thing to do, but Regis does it anyway. He presses his forehead onto Clarus’s shoulder and lets Clarus’s arms warp around him.

He’s not okay. 

One of Clarus’s hands pushes up towards Regis’s nape, and his fingers stroke soothingly though the strands there. 

And in the fading darkness, they hold. 

Two hours later they’re back in the car, easily have the trail again, and are closing in on their target.

“It’s the disc,” Regis says when he’s certain. “The daemons are being pulled towards the disc.”

Weskham turns to him from the front seat. Next to Cid, he’s the only one in the car who looks like he has enough room. “The Disc of Cauthess?”

“It’s the Astral power they’re being pulled towards. The Titan.”

“That don’t make any sense,” Cid says.“The disc? Why would the daemons be going there?”

Squeezed in between Cor and Clarus, Regis lets his head tip back towards the sky. His skull hits the headrest and his eyes drift lazily to the blueness above him. “There’s another factor at work here. There’s an interloper.”

“Translation?” Weskham asks. 

“I don’t know,” Regis answers honestly, “who’s doing this. But someone is.”

“Niflheim?” Clarus poses.

“Worse,” Regis answers. 

They abandon the car past the halfway mark in the day, with the Disc of Cauthess pulsing power against Regis’s skin, rumbling deep in him. 

“Never been this close before,” Cid says with a touch of apprehension. 

Regis can’t look away from the disc, even as Cor waves him over to come look at tracks he’s found.

Clarus says, “We should make camp on that ridge over there. There’s still light now, but it won’t last, and then we’ll be out in the dark, with the other, normal daemons to contend with.”

Cor, who may be young but is in no way timid, shakes his head. “We should press on. We’ve almost caught up. We will catch up. If we rest, we might fall further behind.”

Clarus gestures at the Disc. “We know where they’re going. We’re not going to lose them.”

Angrily Cor bites back, “And every day we haven’t eliminated these daemons, is another day they pose a threat to the civilian population. There are camp sites scattered all over the place. Do you want to risk those people? Those children?”

Regis watches Cor and Clarus carefully. Each is more certain than the other, and while there’s nothing aggressive or threatening about their behavior to each other, neither has any aim to be denied. 

“You’re pandering to his Highness’s kind nature, Cor Leonis.” Clarus does not look pleased at the boy’s obvious ploy. 

“And you’re discrediting the validity of the argument, for its pandering intent.”

Regis has to smother down a laugh. Clarus is terribly easy going most of the time, but when he digs his heels in, he’s hard to deny. However, Cor is notoriously strong willed and opinionated. He’s definitely one to stand is ground until the last possible moment. It appears they’re at a stalemate of sorts.

With a small huff, one that gives his age away, Cor turns to Regis and says, “Highness? The choice is yours.”

In agreement, Clarus nods. 

Regis hold authority over them, it’s true, be he’s far from the only one who has a right to make the final decision. So instead of giving an immediate answer, he swings to Cid and Weskham to ask, “Your opinions?”

“I don’t like waiting,” Weskham says right away.He nods towards the disc so impossibly near and hot that it feels like they’re practically cooking in their skin. “And Leonis isn’t wrong. There are people camped near the disc, in the path of those daemons. Maybe the daemons aren’t going for them specifically, but they’ll rip through whole families at the mere chance of it.”

In a kind of way that suggest defeat of his personal opinion on the matter, Cid says, “These daemons ain’t like the regular type, either. If we rest, they won’t. Not saying we’ll lose the trail, but bet your bottom we’ll lose precious time.”

Once more, obviously feeling outvoted, Clarus turns to him and says, “It’s not safe to travel at night. As capable as we are, it’s an unnecessary risk. Your father would not approve. His council would not approve. And—”

“You don’t approve?” Cor says in a cheeky way. 

Clarus takes a steading breath. “It’s inexcusable for you to risk your life in this venture, anymore than necessary. As your Shield, no matter what you decide, I’ll stand with you. But this is an unnecessary risk. The daemons that come out at night are much different than the ones that attacked Insomnia. We won’t be a match for some of them.”

Cid adds, “He’s not wrong. Some of them are more than a might stronger than the five of us put together.”

“And what are the chances of those daemons manifesting?” Regis asks. 

“At midnight?” Cid muses, “pretty damn good. And I can’t imagine we’ll catch up to that pack of daemons until right around then.”

More gently, Clarus reminds, “You can’t save anyone if you yourself are dead.”

Regis hates it when Clarus’s logic wins out against his own headstrong urges. 

With authority, Regis tells Cor, “Clarus is right. We could catch up to the daemons we hunt and put them down easily enough, but we’ll be out in the dark when we do it. If we stray from campgrounds, we will be attacked. And currently, we’re not equipped to deal with that. We’ll wait a majority of the night out, and then leave before sunrise.”

Cor doesn’t look happy, but he accepts Regis’s words easily enough. 

“I don’t want to wait,” Regis adds to Weskham, “but Clarus makes a fine point, and none of you have offered anything stronger.”

Weskham shrugs. “Fair’s fair. And I’m not exactly interested in the idea of being torn limb from limb by a daemon that can crush me with his pinky.”

In a relieved way, Clarus says, “I’ll handle the tents.”

Cor mumbles, “I’ll collect firewood.”

Regis watches the two men walk in the opposite direction and feels unease. They need to be united for what comes next, and not divided in the slightest. But it’s clear to Regis that Clarus sees Cor as an interloper of sorts, and perhaps Cor sees Clarus as antiquated. 

They’re both far too much alike. 

They don’t really sleep that night. Regis lays in his tent, listening to Weskham and Cor shuffle around, the two of the having first watch. Cid snores at the far end of the tent, but even then the man seems like he’ll startle awake at the smallest noise.

Only the familiar smell of and weight of Clarus huddled in next to him, makes the night bearable.

“Casualties?” Clarus whispers to him in the tent. He’s been holding Regis’s hand for the better part of half hour, and Regis has their interlocked fingers gripped over his beating heart. “Anyone we know?”

Regis shakes his head in the darkness of the tent, then catches himself and says, “I don’t think so. No one from a noble House. No one tied to the monarchy in any way.”

Clarus breathes out in relief. “I’m sorry people died. But I’m so glad none of them were precious to us.”

Regis curls in against Clarus, nosing his face into Clarus’s neck. “It could have been Aulea. She loves to go down to the flower market nearest the Citadel. She goes all the time. The flower market is four blocks from where the daemons manifested. Aulea could have been killed.”

“She’s okay,” Clarus sooths.

That isn’t the point, Regis thinks. 

Then his Shield surprises him by saying, “I could feel you, Regis.”

“Feel me?”

Clarus’s dry lips brush against Regis’s bandaged temple. “I knew nothing of the attack, but you, I felt. I felt you pulling at the crystal, taking more than you ever have before and manipulating it so deftly I was awed. The sheer strength of the power you wielded vibrated through the bond we share.”

“It was instinctive,” Regis says honestly. “Too easy. I think I scared my father with how easily it came.”

Clarus makes a noise of agreement. “You’ve always scared him in that regard.”

“What?”

Clarus pulls himself up over Regis a bit, so he can angle a delightful kiss to his mouth before whispering, “Your father thought you might be the king of kings.”

Regis sits up so abruptly he knocks Clarus off him completely. His pulse is thundering through him, and in the moment, Regis is terrified.

“I heard him,” Clarus pushes on for is benefit. “He spoke to my mother about it recently, perhaps four or five months ago. Princes are meant to take to the crystal steadily, with more failure than success, and with a natural difficulty. The crystal is supposed to overwhelm. But you? You took to it like a fish in water. Sure, the crystal drained you. It taxed you and you had failures, but otherwise?”

Regis breathes out knowingly, “It came too easily.”

Clarus rumbles something that sounds like agreement. “You use the crystal too easily. It comes to you without much effort, like it would for the king of kings.”

Shakily, Regis says, “I’m not chosen.”

“Agreed,” Clarus replies. “Wouldn’t the crystal have already indicated if you were? I don’t believe you’re the king of kings. I believe you’re exceptionally gifted, and that worries your father, but you’re not the one from the prophecy.”

Regis tips against Clarus in relief, feeling the older man enfold him in a strong embrace. 

“Your father burdens my mother with all these worries,” Clarus confides. “He worries how much of your life the crystal will rob you of. I worry too.”

It was almost a joke now for Regis to say, “The line of Lucis is never meant to see old age, Clarus.” 

Clarus holds him tighter. 

“It’s addictive, too,” Regis says, comforted by the steady sound of Cid’s breathing. “The feeling that comes from using the power of the crystal … it’s addicting. It makes me want to use it.”

Clarus huffs, “And then it drains your life force away when you do.”

“I gain power in return,” Regis combats. “I gain the power necessary to defend and protect the people I care about the most in this world, and all of Insomnia. I have hope that will extend to all of Eos one day. I’d say it’s a fair trade off. I know you feel otherwise, but that’s what I believe to be fair.”

“There’s nothing fair about something that steals you away from me.”

Irony practically dripping from his words, Regis says, “Plenty of things steal us away from each other. This is the least offensive of them, as far as I’m concerned.”

Clarus is silent then, not offering anything else in the way of words. But his fingers stroke across Regis’s skin in smooth motions, calming and cathartic. 

In the shelter of the tent, Regis whispers, “This is it.”

“What is?”

“The last of us,” Regis comments. “The very end.”

Regis feels it in his bones, sinking into him with devastating realness. After this, after they go back to Insomnia, it will be the end of what Regis has savored so preciously. He’ll lose Clarus to marriage and children and duty. They’ll never be again, what they’ve managed to be now.

“Not yet,” Clarus vows in his ear. “We’re not at the end just yet.”

“There’s so little left,” Regis says in a bereft way. 

Clarus kisses his mouth soundly, lips and teeth and tongue all mixed together. And then with veneration and intensity, Clarus swears to him, “We have time yet.”

Regis is just desperate enough to cling to the words. 


	9. Chapter Nine

It’s still dark out when they pack their camping gear away and suit up for the coming battle. Regis moves a little lethargically, stumbling once into Clarus before fighting back the sleepiness lurking under his skin. No one says anything about his lack of coordination. Aside from Cid, they all look as if they’ve had just as little sleep as Regis. 

“I thought the point of camping was that we didn’t go hunting in the night,” Cor points out, head tipped back towards the moon that’s still in the sky.

“And I thought your main concern was losing time,” Clarus returns. “We can move swiftly and hopefully without detection, in the hours before the sun comes up. And then by the time we reach the daemons we’re pursuing, the sun will be coming up.”

Weskham presses a cup of coffee into Regis’s hands and says, “You look terrible.”

Regis spent the entire night thinking of Clarus. He often thinks of Clarus. He’s very much in love with Clarus, and though he’s known this for a long while, it’s nearly a sucker punch to the gut of a feeling now. He used to think of the great things they would do together, the places they’d go, the things they’d achieve. Now Regis only thinks of the path he’ll walk alone. 

Selfish, selfish thoughts are consuming at will now. Particularly those concerning Clarus’s future wife and family. 

Who is Regis to be jealous of Clarus’s future children? 

The notion of it all is pitiful. 

“Just tired,” Regis tells him quietly. He sips on the dark liquid and watches Cor and Clarus squabble for a short while.

Then, when Regis has had just enough time to wake himself up from his thoughts, he tells them, “Let’s get moving. The sooner we catch up with those daemons, the sooner we can be done with this.”

Clarus nods in agreement, and even Cor offers no resistance. 

It’s only fifteen more minutes before they’re finally on the move. They’ve abandoned the car, which is practically useless against the jagged rocks that line the Disc of Cauthess, and travel on foot. Regis has good boots on, and he feels the thrum of the chase under his skin—along with the vibrations of the crystal.

And on they run. 

Cid navigates them expertly down little known paths, and Clarus tracks the movements of the daemons easily. Together they work as a highly functioning, well-seasoned team. 

And just when there’s a hint of pink in the sky, they catch the first sight of their daemons.

The tricky littles beasts are clustered together, jumping about and tearing through a small patch of trees that managed to survive the heat of the Disc. They aren’t particularly strong looking daemons, but they’re small and agile, too quick. And they have sticky fingers. Regis noticed this the first time he fought their kind in Insomnia. They’re able to lift items of a person without so much as a hint that they’ve done so. It’s problematic to say the least, and makes them a much more formidable foe when they’ve stolen all of the first-aid medication that one is carrying. 

Regis hunkers down over a ridge, looking at them. The crystal pushes at him to summon weapons to his aid, and it happens almost without his permission. In a ripple of power that pushes out at the world, Regis has his sword in hand. Clarus’s much bigger sword follows suit a half second later, and on Regis’s other side, he can see Weskham’s pistols. 

It occurs to Regis he’s never seen Cid fight before. And though Cor is young and inexperienced, he comes highly decorated from the Master of Arms in Insomnia. Cid has no recommendation, and he isn’t young either. 

“You okay for this?” Regis asks, leaning around Weskham to catch sight of him. “You don’t need to go down there with us. This isn’t a fight you—”

Looking grossly offended, Cid looks over like he wants to box Regis’s ears, and threatens, “Why I oughtta—”

Regis doesn’t make the suggestion again.

“Ready?” Clarus asks.

“They flank quickly,” Cor points out, watching the daemons tear into a poor creature caught too close to them. 

Regis feels a spark of soreness in him. “I certainly remember.”

“Then we hit hard and fast,” Weskham says. “And we have each other’s backs.”

“Always,” Regis says to that. Always.

There’s only six daemons, six, against the five of them. It should be a quick battle, and a relatively easy one. And for the most part, it is.

Regis, in an impulsive way that only the crystal makes him, flings himself forward. Warping is like breathing, and no matter how draining it is, it’s almost an addiction. The others can’t warp. Aside from the line of Lucis, no one else has been able to use the crystal in such a way, at least that they know of, but Regis’s friends are fast enough on their own. They’re down to where Regis is in the blink of an eye, and in a beautiful furry that looks almost choreographed, they fight a winning battle together. 

Regis is barely spent, with only his fingers where he’s gripped his sword a little sore, when the last of the daemons die. It gives a crooning sound, one of anguish that curls at Regis’s insides, and then it dissipates into nothing. 

Cid spits on the ground near it, in a sign of good riddance. 

“That wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected,” Clarus comments, letting his weapon flash away, tucked back into a pocket of subspace. 

“Yeah, well, you should have seen Insomnia,” Weskham says in a haunted way. “There were hundreds of those things, and there were two of us who knew how to fight them effectively.”

Regis tries not to wince as Cor demands, “What about the crownsguard? They’re trained for these unlikely situations.”

“The crownsguard,” Regis supplies, “were busy prioritizing certain citizens. The ones who were never even exposed to danger in the first place.”

There’s anger written across Cor’s face when he asks, “They weren’t down on the streets with you, Highness?”

It’s a loaded question, one that Regis can’t really begin to argue with them. So he says simply, “My father ordered them into that fashion, so Weskham and I fought on the streets, with the cityguard.”

“They showed eventually,” Weskham says to Cor. “But for a long time, it was just me and the prince. We almost got overrun a couple times.”

There’s a tremble in Cor’s clenched fist. “How could the Marshall allow that?”

“The Marshall was protecting my father,” Regis replies. “Because the King’s Shield was out of Insomnia at the time.”

“Sounds like your daddy was protected up in that tower of his,” Cid whistles out. “But not his heir.”

Regis goes to argue back, to defend his father even though Regis disagreed with him from the start, when the ground gives a sudden rumble.

“What is that?” Weskham demands, putting his hands out for balance. “An earthquake?”

Clarus arcs towards the Disc with wide eyes. “Is it the titan?”

“No,” Cid says with narrowed eyes. “It’s a daemon, and a big one.”

“A big one!” Weskham shouts.

There, no more than twenty-five feet away, the ground is turning to ooze. It goes black, even as the sky lightens further, and starts to bubble.

When one terrifying, mammoth, purple hand reaches up out of the ground, Cor demands roughly of Cid, “These daemons aren’t supposed to come out during the day. Isn’t that what you told us?”

“They don’t, not normally.” Cid looks a little panicked. “This ain’t in their normal nature, not this close to sunrise.”

Roaring, the enormous hand continues to pull itself up, and then comes the rest of the body. 

“Get ready!” Regis shouts. The daemon isn’t coming alone, either. There are floating balls of fire, daemons with painted faces, flanking the big daemon. 

Weskham levels his pistols up. “What the hell is that thing?”

It’s unlike anything they’ve ever fought before, Regis worries. 

Cid breathes out, “Iron Giant.”

“We need a plan,” Clarus says quickly, with precious little time to spare. “Highness?”

Regis is not a tactician by nature. In fact, he’s barely passable. But some things are impossibly obvious.

Also, Regis has been sitting through his father’s war room councils for years, and has spent even more being taught by a private tutor with a voracious gift for it. 

This means that Regis is competent in a pinch, and the ridgeline is their best tactical advantage.

Regis points quickly and commands, “Weskham, you’ve got those guns, put them to use. You’re best to us at a distance.”

“Got it.” Weskham flashes a thumbs up and sprints off. 

“You two are our heavy hitters,” Regis decides, eyes sliding between Cor and Clarus. “You’ll do the most damage, but also be the slowest out there.”

“Highness,” Clarus says worryingly. His eyes are locked onto the sight behind Regis, where the Iron Giant has pulled himself completely from the ground has locked his sights on them. 

Regis ignores him in favor of turning to Cid and saying, “We’re going to play distraction. We keep moving, we keep their attention on us, and we give Cid and Clarus the opportunity to land critical strikes.”

“Not bad,” Cid decides. 

“And we keep the high ground,” he tells the lot of them. 

One of the glowing balls of fire, something Regis has never seen before in his life, explodes outward, doubling in size and spraying then with a wave of fire. 

Regis flashes out of the way, adrenaline coursing through him. He warps up high, his sword impaled on the side of a nearby water tower. It gives him a good look at the battlefield bellow, where his comrades are already moving on his orders.

Keep their attention, he tells himself. His best advantage is that he’s fast and agile. He has to play these things to his advantage. 

The sound of Weskham’s pistols discharging cracks through the air, and Regis throws himself forward, pulling hard at all the crystal has to offer. It offers a lot.

Regis slashes through the air at the Iron Giant, pulling its gaze up so Clarus and Cor can work in unison to slash at it legs. To his left Cid is moving impossibly fast for his age, pulling the attention of the fire daemons to his form, leaving them wide open for an assault from Weskham’s bullets.

It’s going far, far too well. Regis should have known better. 

The Iron Giant is slow, but it was bound to get lucky eventually. 

Regis feels its meaty hands wrap around him the first time he’s a touch too slow. The daemon doesn’t waste a second of time before he begins squeezing, making Regis scream out in pain as his torso is crushed. He can’t breathe. 

He’s so wrapped up in his own pain, and rightly so, that he doesn’t even realize he isn’t the only one screaming. At least not until the Iron Giant is flinging him to the side hard. The word comes crashing back into focus then, in a swirl of colors. 

Regis hits something hard. 

Against him someone groans hard, wheezing out in pain, and it’s then Regis realizes he’s hit a person.

The two of them hit the ground even harder than they hit each other, and Regis curls in on himself. His chest burns when he tries to breathe in, and everything hurts when he tries to move. So he doesn’t—move, that is, he has to breathe. 

He cracks his eyes open in a bleary, blurry way. Next to him he sees Cor. Cor is on his hands and knees, fighting valiantly to get himself up. But his face is a bloody mess, from what looks like a busted nose, and he’s swaying dangerously. 

“Cor.” Regis tries to reach for him. Cor’s so young. He’s just fifteen. Regis feels every bit responsible for him.

“A…are you … okay?” Cor’s voice is just as unsteady as his body. “Highness?”

Things are falling apart. Things are already in pieces.

Across the way Regis can see Cid being battered back and forth by the fire daemons. Weskham’s lost his advantage, toppling down the ridge with smoking clothes that might still be on fire from the looks of it.

And Clarus? Clarus is doing his best to content an Iron Giant, but he’s far, far outmatched. 

Take more, the crystal urges from him. Take as much as you want.

Don’t, the rational part of his mind argues back. Don’t do it.

Regis has to. He has to take more from the crystal. But the crystal also unnerves him to a point. It makes him nervous, the addictive way it operates. So Regis will take, but certainly not as much as he could. 

And he has a plan.

He and Clarus have practiced a bit, sparring with magic. Regis is confident Clarus knows how to access his magic, and then use it appropriately. But the others? Them, not so much. Still, it’s the only thing he has left to try, and if he doesn’t, they’re all going to die. 

Regis is not going to let his friends die. 

The power of the crystal rushes at him the moment he pulls for it. It explodes into him with the kind of force that might have knocked him over if he were standing.

The crystal gets him on his feet. 

“Clarus!” Regis shouts. His legs nearly bow out when he stands, but then he balances himself out, and feels strong enough to warp over to his Shield. 

“We need to retreat!” Clarus demands, hooking an arm around Regis’s waist and dragging him out the way of a swing from the Iron Giant. 

“We need to take care of the fire daemons first,” Regis denies. “Ice. We need ice. Remember what we practiced?”

Incredulously, Clarus demands, “You want me to try and use your magic when you’re already injured?”

Cor’s up on his feet when Regis looks for him then, and Cid’s at Weskham’s side, defending him from the focused fire daemons. 

“We need to do this now,” Regis says, more like orders, and he can already feel the ice at his fingertips. “We worked out something special. We practiced it. Just for a moment like this. I can take the drain, and you need to trust me when I say that.”

Clarus argues back, “I’d trust you more if you weren’t so altruistic.” He clenches his teeth down in a frustrated way, then asks, “Do think it’ll work?”

“On the fire daemons?” Regis clarifies. “Absolutely. And if they’re gone, then the five of us will have a shot at the Iron Giant.”

Clarus gives a gruff nod. “Then we practiced it for a reason, right?”

“Cor!” Regis calls out, darting from Clarus’s side as the Iron Giant swings at them again. “Buy us thirty seconds!”

Cor looks more steady now, and gives a definitive nod in Regis’s direction. 

“Cid!” Regis motions from Cid and Weskham to Cor, and blessedly, he’s sure he’s understood. 

The Iron Giant roars, and it’s all the motivation Regis needs. 

The flush of ice in Regis nearly frosts the hair on his head, and it drives him forward to push that power towards Clarus.

The ice causes Clarus to light up, or more importantly, his sword does,

“Now!” Clarus urges.

Regis sprints at him. When he reaches Clarus, the bigger man trusts him upward with almost inhuman strength. Regis goes flying into the air, a sensation so different from when he warps. Unlike warping, which practically detaches him from reality for a short period of time, this feels visceral. This feels like fluidity and gravity and force, all at once. It feels like power. 

Cor, Weksham and Cid drive their attention towards the Iron Giant, and in synchronicity, Regis and Clarus attack the fire daemons.

From his spot in the air, one that he’s rapidly losing by the millisecond, Regis rains ice down on the fire daemons. He brings it down in sheets, the kind that are sharp and pointed and deadly, while Clarus drives his ice magicked sword into the daemons from below.

The one-two punch is flawless, and even Regis is a little awed it works so well. 

The two ice daemons go up with a fizzle of steam and wretched screaming, and it’s a victory. It’s a short lived victory, because they still have the Iron Giant to contend with, but it’s still a victory. 

Even a small victory counts for something.

Regis hit the ground with his feet after delivering his magic. They sting on impact, and he’s thrown forward so he has to brace his hands on the ground. His palms get scratched up, and he’s not confident he can hold his sword anymore, but he’s still breathing, and that’s something.

“You were magnificent,” Clarus tells him with shining eyes, coming to his side to offer him a hand up. “Absolutely magnificent.”

Regis lets Clarus haul him up to his feet. “You were pretty amazing yourself.”

“Hey!” Cid shouts at them in an irritated way. “Stop lollygagging around over there and come help us fight.”

Cor slashes his sword into the Iron Giant’s left ankle, which takes him down to one knee. 

“How do you call that fighting?” Regis teases as he and Clarus jog to their side. “It seems like Clarus and I are the only ones doing all the work here.”

“Hardly,” Cid says dryly. 

Weskham points out, “Not all of us have tricks. Not all of us can be your favorite.”

The daemon recovers, getting back onto two feet. 

“You’re all my favorite,” Regis says with a laugh. “Now let’s take this thing down.”

Things are different the next time they engage the Iron Giant. The fire daemsons aren’t battering them around, dividing them or distracting.And the Iron Giant seems weakened just enough by the rising sun to let Regis and his party have the advantage. 

They batter the daemon down, driving swords into him, using magic, and picking away at him. They work as a well-trained team, covering for each other, assisting each other, and playing off each other’s strengths as much as they cover for each other’s weaknesses.

It’s a beautifully choreographed thing to see, and even more amazing to be a part of.

When Regis warps up high, to bring the final, crushing blow down on the Iron Giant, they’re all spent. But they also win, and that’s all that matters.

“There is goes,” Weskham says, breathing hard. 

The daemon is skinning back into the ground, crying out as it dies, the ground bubbling once more with purple and black ooze. 

“We did it,” Cor says, sounding even a little amazed at himself.

Regis sits down hard, legs crossed, arms going behind him to brace himself.He’s sucking in deep breaths as he looks around at them. 

They look a mess.

Weskham’s clothing is charred, and his skin is irritated with obvious burns. Cor’s face is terribly bloody, and his clothing is stained from his busted nose. And while Cid and Clarus are better off than the both of them, they also look bone weary and drained.

“Your Highness?” Cor asks, his voice nasally from his broken nose. 

“That was …” Regis doesn’t know the right word to choose. Thrilling? Terrifying? 

Cid gives a chuckle, seemingly understanding. 

Almost completely unlike him, Clarus declares, “I want a hot bath. I want a hot bath and a soft bed. I want a hotel. A nice one, too.”

Kneeling down in the dirt, Weskham offers up, “I second that. And I’ll stage a coup if you disagree, Regis.”

The crystal has left a lingering tingle in him, one that Regis fights to ignore. So he looks from face to face, taking in the sight of his friends, and says, “Calm yourself, peasants. There’ll be no rebellion today.”

Cor laughs boyishly.

“Good,” Clarus says. “Too much work to put them down.”

“Let’s get a hotel.” Regis gets himself to his feet. “I want a bath, too.”

They trudge their way back to the car, blinking against the strong morning light, and then pile into it when they get there. Regis is practically half in Clarus’s lap, his feet obscenely tangled in with Cor’s, but no one seems to mind much. Regis feels Cor lean against him sleepily, and Clarus’s fingers thread with Regis’s just out of sight. 

“Don’t run us off the road falling asleep,” Regis warns Cid with the last bit of playfulness.

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t do it on purpose,” Cid grumbles, “pulling a reckless stunt like you did back there with that magic. What’s wrong with you, boy?”

A little juvenile, Regis requests, “Lecture later, bed and bath now, okay?”

“I second this,” Weskham says. 

“Fair enough,” Cid decides.

Clarus squeezes Regis’s hand, and they drive on.

The best hotel in all of Lucis is in Galdin Quay. But they’re in Duscae, so they settle for the nearest hotel of any kind of repute. It’s no five star resort, and even Galdin Quay has nothing on the hotels in Altissia, but it’s enough, and it serves a purpose.

Each of them books a separate room, a luxury that doesn’t usually occur when they’re out and about in the wilderness of Lucis. And while Cid, Cor and Weskham traipse off to sleep the better part of the day away, Regis looks at Clarus in a curious way.

“You’re not tired too?” Clarus asks. He’s got a layer of dirt on him that’s making his skin look several shades darker than normal. 

They’re meant to have their own rooms, too. But Regis has already decided that they’re going to share. If going back to Insomnia means giving Clarus up, then Regis is going to have him now. 

“I was thinking,” Regis poses, “that I’d call my father and tell him everything went okay. And then we could have a bath. A warm bath. Together.”

A smile plays on Clarus’s lips. “Does my prince command me?”

“Never,” Regis grins back. “The prince’s subjects are free to come and go as they please—to do as they please.”

“Then you know which I choose.” There’s no one around so Claruse reaches out to guide Regis into a chaste kiss. 

“Bath?” Regis asks.

Clarus says, “I’ll get everything ready. You contact the king.”

When Regis gets King Mors on the line, the relief is palpable from the man. 

“We’re a little beat up,” Regis indulges, “but we also had an unexpected fight on our hands. The point is, father, we successfully ran the daemons that attacked Insomnia into the ground, and dispatched them.”

“I’m glad you’re safe,” his father replies, and Regis feels warm pleasure at his father’s concern. 

“Give us a little more time to rest and recover,” Regis asks, “and we’ll return soon enough.”

His father says, “No, Regis. You’re to go to Altissia. To see your mother.”

At the command, Regis gives pause. He’d forgotten about that. He’d forgotten about his mother and Altissia.”

Regis protests, “Of all the Niflheim controlled areas in Eos, Altissia is a stronghold.The Empire can’t touch mother without upsetting the balance of peace in the commercial centerpiece of Accordo. But me? Wouldn’t it be foolish for me to go there? If Niflheim took the crown prince of Insomnia as a captive …”

He hears his father chuckle, and he wishes the call was video, as well as audio.

“Only if you announce your presence, Regis. The Empire holds control over Accordo whole, but they have very little in the way of a physical presence. Go see your mother. Enjoy your youth. And then come home to Insomnia, ready to be a king when you are called to do so.”

A shiver runs through Regis. He hopes his father isn’t saying what he very well may be. 

“I …”

His father orders, “Go to Cape Caeum, Regis. Board the vessel waiting for you there, and travel to Altissia. Travel under a fake name, and bribe the guard at the customs checkpoint. Go and be free for the last time in your life, Regis. Do all the things you want to. Do all the things you intend to.”

Regis grips the phone hard. “Father.”

“I will see you when you return. Send word then.”

Seconds later, Regis is left holding the phone in his hands. 

“That’s what the king said?” Clarus asks incredulously when he and Regis share a bath some time later. It’s a tight squeeze to get them both in the tub, but the water is warm, their bodies slide together in a comforting way, and far be it from Regis to complain about being held close by Clarus.

The water sloshes against the rim of the tub and threatens to go over as Regis slides a hand up Clarus’s smooth chest. 

“That’s what he said. Go to Altissia. See my mother. Come back ready to be a king.”

“Then to Altissia we go?”

Regis hums, “I haven’t seen my mother in a very long time. She writes, but it’s not the same.”

Clarus’s hand cups the back of his neck and he reminds, “You don’t actually have to go to Altissia, you know. If you want to fight your father on this, I’ll stand with you. We can stay here, instead. Or go to Cleigne. I know you’ve been wanting to see Cid’s garage. We could do that, or anything else you have in your mind.”

Slowly, Regis shakes his head. “No. I have to go to Altissia. As estranged and distant as we are, I miss my mother. I want to see her one last time.”

“One last time?”

Regis lays his ear over Clarus’s heart. “Niflheim. When they move into Lucis proper, that’s when Insomnia will close off. That’s when Insomnia will cut ties with everyone else, including Altissia and my mother. If I don’t go now, I won’t see her again.” Probably not again in his lifetime. 

“Fair enough.”

“But you’re right,” Regis says, perking a little. 

“Right? About what?”

Water does go over the rim now when Regis lifts himself over Clarus. Water streams down from him onto Clarus, and he grins. He drops a kiss onto Clarus’s mouth and settles himself into Clarus’s lap, enjoying the sudden friction between them.

Clarus’s hands are anchoring his hips when Regis says, “We just fought a daemon that we were lucky to win against. And war with The Empire is inevitable. So before we go to Altissia, before everything I hold precious right now, ends, I want to go and ride a chocobo.”

Clarus chokes out a deep laugh and offers, “You could simply ride something else, Your Highness.”

“That’s downright scandalous of you to say,” Regis chastises playfully. He lets his hips do even more talking for him, and feels Clarus’s fingers press dangerously deep into his skin. 

“If I am,” Clarus says with labored desire in his voice, “it’s because you’ve made me this way.”

Regis leans forward to whisper in Clarus’s ear, “Who’s to say I can’t have both? I will be king, won’t I?”

“Brat,” Clarus says, and he immediately starts trying to heft Regis out of the bathtub and towards the bedroom via the attached door.

They make love on the floor of the bathroom when it becomes clear they aren’t going to make it to their bed. They’ve splashed water all over the floor, and they need the towels to cushion their bodies against the cold tile beneath them, but for Regis, it’s perfect. 

He breathes hot and heavy against Clarus’s skin as they move together, fingers sliding across wet skin, moans of pleasure barely smothered down. 

It’s the least princely thing to be doing, in the absolute most absurd place, with someone who is far beneath his rank. And this, more than anything else is why it’s a perfect act of love. 

“We’re going to Altissia,” Regis tells them in the morning, when the five of them are gathered at the Crow’s Nest dinner, eating heaps of food that lines their empty stomachs. Regis corrects, “At least Clarus and Weskham and I are. By the king’s orders.”

“What about me?” Cor asks with confusion. 

“You’ve got a choice,” Regis explains, trying not to look as ravenous as he feels, sneaking in bites of pancakes between words. “The King’s Shield Astra Amacitia is back in Insomnia along with her forces. They’re investigating how the daemons were able to appear in Insomnia, let alone in broad daylight. There’s also the matter of the crownsguard and cityguard. This attack proved them to be lacking in different ways, and that needs to be corrected. If you choose to go back to Insomnia now, you’ll be a part of that. I told my father you’ve more than earned your place in their ranks.”

“Or,” Clarus says, speaking for Regis, but not out of turn, “you could come with us to Altissia, to see the queen, and to see the most beautiful place in all of Eos. In fact, I believe that through your mother’s line, Cor, you have family in Altissia. Doesn’t your line go all the way back to the Lucis-Accordo conflict with Niflheim?”

“To the genesis of it,” Cor agrees. He falls quiet for a second, obviously thinking. Then asks, “When we eventually go back to Insomnia, will my position still be waiting for me?”

Regis chortles, “There’s no time limit on it. Come back tomorrow or a year from then, and you’ll still have your prestige for what happened out here, and your position within the ranks of the crownsguard.”

That seems to settle it, because Cor nods and he says, “Then I want to go to Altissia. I want to see the most beautiful city in all of Eos.”

They eat until they practically feel sick, and then they spend a half hour more in the dinner listening to the radio, playing the arcade games, and loitering around. 

Cor and Weskham are glued to one of the arcade machines, battling it out for a high score, and Clarus is using the bathroom, when Regis steps outside into the warm sun to stretch. Cid’s already out there, standing near the car.

“Some adventure, right?” Regis says jokingly as he drifts closer.

Cid eyes him for a second, then asks, “There a reason you didn’t invite me to Altissia?”

Regis blinks in shock. 

“Well?”

Regis, a little flushed with embarrassment, says, “I figured you wouldn’t want to. You came to help us on this as a favor. You did this because we’re friends, and because friends help each other. But you have a whole life to get back to.You have the garage, and your wife. Do I want you with me in Altissia? Of course I do. I want my best friends with me as often as I can manage it. But I didn’t think it was fair to ask you to abandon your family or job any longer than you have.”

Cid just stares at him with an unreadable look.

“You can’t tell me your wife was happy with you over this,” Regis says, trying to lighten the mood.“Running off at some prince’s beck and call, putting your life in danger for him and his problems. What would she have to say about me asking you to keep going with us?”

Cid’s face turns something tragic and he says, “My Mia died about three months ago.”

Regis stills. 

“Natural causes,” Cid says, looking away at the skyline. “Went in her sleep, all peaceful like.But she’s dead and buried. There ain’t nothing back for me at the garage that can’t wait.”

Voice dry and thin, Regis asks, “What about your daughter?”

Cid rolls his eyes. “That girl ain’t needed me in some time. ‘Til you came calling for this, there weren’t no one who needed me anymore.”

It’s crushing, the sudden loneliness that Regis feels from Cid. 

“I wrote you twice in the past three months,” Regis says quietly. “You never wrote back to say that your wife had passed. Cid, you have my utmost condolences. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Cid huffs gruffly. 

Regis asks him, “Ever been to Altissia before?”

Inside the diner, Regis can still see Weskham and Cor playing their game.

Cid admits, “I wouldn’t be any use to use as a guide. Never been to the city, heard plenty of things about it, though.”

To the side, Clarus steps out of the diner. He looks to them, but doesn’t come over. It’s something that Regis appreciates.

“Well,” Regis tells Cid, “I didn’t ask if you could guide me around Altissia. I’ve been before. And I have to imagine my mother will be the best possible guide in all of Accordo.”

Cid gives him a confused, odd look.

“I’m going back to Insomnia after this to be king,” Regis reveals. “My father has been hinting at it, and he’s more frail than he’s ever been. I think he’ll abdicate soon. I think it’ll be when I’m home for good. This is his present to me. This opportunity for freedom, no matter how short. This is his gift of apology for the coming burden, sending me off to do as I please for a time.”

Clarus is holding Cor and Weskham from coming over, when Regis risks another glance to him.

“And if this is it,” Regis finishes, “if this is the last time I get to be just a person having an adventure, then I want it to be with the people I trust, who are my best friends, and who mean everything to me. Cid, do you want to come with us to Altissia? We would love to have you.”

Cid looks back at him then, for the first time since the start of the conversation, and it’s utter relief Regis can read in his eyes. Relief he doesn’t have to go home to an empty garage, with his wife buried somewhere near by. 

“Guess I have to,” Cid says, giving Regis an exaggerated look. “You boys seem to get yourselves into all kinds of trouble.You’ll need me to pull yer asses out of the fire. Alright, let’s go to Altissia.”

Regis holds up a finger and tuts, “Ah, don’t be so hasty. There’s somewhere we have to go before there. Somewhere very important.”

In the end, Regis gets to see his chocobos. He has the pictures to prove it. 


	10. Chapter 10

“Time,” Regis says, looking out over Insomnia, at the last vestige of hope, “is the true villainy in this tale.”

Hands shaking, Regis clasps his fingers together, trying to still the motion. He’s retreated, in a single moment of peace, to the only place in the Citadel that gives him comfort anymore. 

If Aulea were still alive, she would be at his side, offering him words of wisdom and comfort. She might hold his shaking hands in his own, offer a joke, or an anecdote, or simply stand with him in silence. 

Aulea hasn’t been alive in some time. 

Time.

In the distance, the Niflheim battle ships float, almost inconspicuously, as if they haven’t come to steal everything Regis has held dear in his life—everything he’s given his life to protect. 

When Regis was young, he thought there was plenty of time. Now he realizes, he’s always been living on that which is borrowed. He’s never had enough of it to satisfy, and now comes the eleventh hour. Now comes the hardest series of events that will ever come to pass. 

The last of them, too. At least for Regis. 

“Majesty?” 

Regis bows his head forward, eyes closing.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown. 

“Regis?”

Forcing himself to stand tall, keeping his weight off his bad leg, Regis turns to Clarus and asks, “Is everything in order?”

Like Regis himself, Clarus is old, softened by the passage of time. Their skin sags, their hair has gone gray, and they move slower than ever. Neither Regis nor Clarus have seen battle in eons, tucked away safely behind the shield that protects Insomnia. But they feel it in their bones like a heavy ache.

The wall, power provided by the crystal, makes Regis feel like a hypocrite. He remembers being younger, and feeling constrained by it, finding it unnecessary and a hindrance. But he still left Insomnia several times. Now, no one goes in or out. Instead the people of Insomnia are locked away from the rest of Lucis like preserved artifacts of a different age. 

Again, more kindly, Clarus calls out, “Regis?”

Their eyes meet and Regis, for just a split second, one that hardly even registers, feels like the young boy again who kissed his future Shield in the wilderness of Lucis. 

“I just needed a moment to compose myself,” Regis relays, and he takes a step forward with a pronounced limp.

“Thinking of Noctis?” Clarus asks. 

“For once,” Regis chuckle deeply, “I am not.”

Noctis, his precious son, is gone from Insomnia now. Noctis has gone to reclaim his birthright, to rise into the position of King of Kings, and take back the future of all of Eos. It’s a terrible fate waiting to behold one, a thing that has crushed Regis’s heart practically to ash. But Noctis also has more time than the rest of them. Noctis has months or years more, and Regis knows that the rest of Insomnia has days. 

Clarus seems to decide, “Good. Gladiolas is with him, and he’ll keep Noctis safe until the time comes. A Shield under the name of Amacitia has never failed a king of Lucis.”

Regis leans forward on his cane. “Clarus, I’ve spoken to House Amacitia’s retainer.”

“Jared?” Clarus asks. 

Regis steadies himself as he tells Clarus, “When Insomnia falls, when I’m no longer …capable of protecting us from Niflheim, Jared is to take his family and evacuate. I’ve secured lodgings for him at Lestallum, and assigned a crownsdguard as protection.”

He sees the obvious confusion on Clarus’s face. And his Shield says, “Jared has been invaluable to the Amacitia line. Thank you, Regis.” But there’s uncertainty with Clarus still.

“Niflheim will hit the Citadel hard,” Regis decides, moving to the nearby bench and sitting on it. He waits for Clarus to join him before saying. “The Empire won’t simply target the line of Lucis. It will also aim to destroy the Nobel Houses, along with prominent members of the government. I suspect, however, Niflheim will pay very little attention to a vast majority of the civilians simply trying to flee the destruction. In that, Jared will make his escape, and he’ll take with him your daughter, who otherwise will be a target.”

Clarus’s face crumples in that, his eyes suddenly wet.

Smuggling Noctis from the city was easily enough. He and his companions, escorted by Cor, could pass relatively unnoticed from the city. But there’s no room for additional evacuations. Not on the chessboard Regis has been moving his pieces about for some time. 

“Insomnia will fall tomorrow,” Regis tells Clarus. “You understand this rouse for what it is. The people do not. They hope for peace with this signing and marriage, but we know better. If they did as well, there’d be panic. There’d be an attempt at a mass exodos. This is the only course of action I can offer you, Clarus, as an attempt to save your line. Still … the risk …”

“I accepted how this might end long ago,” Clarus says. He means to say, he’s already accepted that Gladiolas can be spared, at least for a time, to protect Noctis, but Iris will die along with all the other members of the Nobel Houses.

Regis reaches out with one gloved hand, and puts it down on Clarus’s nearby knee. “Jared will do everything within his power to see Iris safely out of the city. She will live if the gods favor us even a small bit.”

Regis used to dread the idea of the two of them marrying, having children, and growing apart. And the truth is, Aulea passed over a decade ago, and Clarus’s wife several years ago, but they haven’t shared a moment of intimacy since Altissia. Not since Regis went to see his mother, since they rode the gondolas, dined on the finest food, danced and laughed and made love. 

Even now they don’t touch often.

Regis doesn’t know why. They’re both old men left alone now. They’re King and Shield. And still, nothing transpires between them. Maybe the time has passed. 

“My Iris,” Clarus breathes out, shoulders shaking. 

When Gladiolas was born, Regis remembers, it felt truly like the end of one life for them, and the beginning of another. Clarus had his heir, the throne had its next potential Shield, and Regis had his own duties to fulfil.

Once and only once, with Gladiolas cradled in his arms, the baby sleeping soundly and swaddled tightly, Clarus told him, “I love you, Regis. I will always love you. This, none of this, makes me love you less.”

But having a child is something that changes a person. Regis learns this the moment that Noctis is born. A baby, born of one’s own flesh and blood, changes a person. It changes priorities.

Regis never doubts that Clarus still loves him, not as the seasons change, and the years pass. But nothing is ever the same as it was when they were young. 

Elbows going to rest on his knees, Clarus tells Regis candidly, “This isn’t how I imagined things playing out. This isn’t how I imagined things at all.”

Regis laughs a little. “You didn’t think The Empire wouldn’t eventually claw its way here?”

“No,” Clarus corrects, moving his own hand to cover Regis’s on his knee.

They’re touching. They never touch. But now, they’re touching. 

“Then what?”

Clarus smiles at him. “I hardly thought you’d survive that fall you took off a chocobo at Wiz’s post two decades ago.”

Regis contents immediately, “I did not fall! That was a dismount. I dismounted the chocobo.”

“Your foot caught the side of the saddle,” Clarus points out, “you tipped sideways, and you had a fine breakfast of mud and grass to show for it.”

Regis feels his face go red. 

“After I was assured you hadn’t broken your neck, it was most certainly the best thing I had ever seen in my life.”

“You undoubtedly laughed long enough.”

Fondly, in a way that only familiar friends can share, Regis and Clarus laugh.

Regis says, “I was a little excited, I’ll admit. I could have paid more attention to what I was doing.”

Clarus remarks, “You really wanted to see those chocobos.”

These are the memories Regis clings to. These are the memories that he’ll take with him into the afterlife, when he sacrifices everything to give Noctis a fair shot at his destiny. 

His poor, unlucky son, favored by the gods. 

“In the end,” Clarus says in a sober way, “I didn’t think our lives would end like this. Sitting side by side on a bench, attempting to outmaneuver a more powerful enemy who has set his sights on our kingdom, our crystal, and our king.”

“Thought we’d go out in a blaze of glory in the throes of combat?” Regis questions. “There’s still time for that, my friend.”

Clarus gives him a haunting look. “No. Your Majesty. I just foolishly believed in the end, that I might be able to save you.” 

For some time, Regis doesn’t speak. And yet he hears everything Clarus means to say despite the silence.

“Noctis,” Regis decides to say finally, “is the only one who can save Eos. And we’ll buy him every bit of time that we can to accomplish that.”

Looking weary and tired, Clarus says, “Protect your King. Be his Shield. Give your life for his. Prioritize the crown. These are the tenants my mother drilled into me, long before she was confident enough to trust you in my care.” He huffs. “And look at you now. Look at what I’ve allowed to happen.”

Regis laughs a little, “Surely I don’t look so bad.”

Clarus arc towards him and says passionately, “You are as desirable to me now as you have ever been. I yearn to be by your side, let alone have you allow me the privilege of being wanted in return.”

“It’s no privilege,” Regis denies. 

“It is the greatest honor in all of Eos.”

Palms a little sweaty, Regis leans more heavily on his cane and asks, “What do you think you’ve allowed to happen to me?”

There’s such pain, such grief in Clarus, it nearly bleeds into Regis. 

“I have born witness to the greatest king Lucis has ever seen, forced to lower himself to the filth that is Niflheim.” Clarus reaches for him then, taking Regis’s shoulders in his hands and pulling him close. “I have seen you, Regis, lose your wife in an attack that might have been hindered if I were there.”

“That was no one’s fault,” Regis says. Least of all Clarus’s.

“You destroy yourself each day, bit by bit, protecting Lucis,” Clarus finishes. “The crystal steals away your life force, as the wolves come battering at our door, and you will die, my King, long before it is your turn to.”

Regis sets his cane to the side, having no further use for it at the moment. And then he takes Clarus’s face carefully in his hands and says in a commanding way, “Every sacrifice I have made, every part of myself I have given up, has been of my own free will. You often called me altruistic, Clarus. You’ve always seen that as a character defect.”  
  
Clarus goes to interrupt.

Regis presses on, “No king deserves to rule, who is not willing to give every part of his essence, to keep his people safe—to keep the ones he loves most, safe.”

Now Clarus doesn’t try to speak.

Regis’s fingers trace over Clarus’s face, along the groves and lines that age had bitten into his skin.

“I have no regrets,” Regis says, “save for what path my son’s destiny will lead him down, and how in over two decades, I’ve not felt your touch against mine, your lips to my skin, and your warmth in my bed.”

“Oh, Regis.” 

“Will you grant an old man his last wish?” Regis asks, daring to have a touch of hope at the end of a long journey. “I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight, but having you with me will be a comfort.”

“You need only have asked,” Clarus chokes out, wrestling Regis’s form against him even further. “Regis, my king, if you had but asked for me once, all these years, I would have come to you. I would have willingly and eagerly shared your bed.”

This is something Regis has always known. He’s known from the moment he relinquished Clarus to his husbandly duties, and turned his own focus towards Aulea and Insomnia. He’s always known how weak he and Clarus truly are in the matter of their desires. 

“I know,” Regis reveals. “Which was why I couldn’t. Our paths diverged for a reason, and I wouldn’t let you be to Aulea, what your mother was to my mother. I wouldn’t forsake the vows we made to our wives, upon our honor. Least of all when our children were born.”

“And after?” Clarus asks. “After Aulea died, gods bless her soul? After my wife died?”

“Then,” Regis says slowly, “then I had Noctis to worry over, and Insomnia to hold together, and I was afraid, Clarus, that for once in my life, I would be indulgent and selfish. Insomina has always required a selfless king, and I was afraid to be otherwise.”

The fragile, intimate moment between them is shattered by a soft voice clearing.

Regis turns to see a young girl eyeing them worriedly, her gaze flickering about the hold they have on each other.

But Regis is old now, and days away from destruction, and he has no time or mind for propriety. 

“The council has concluded their break, Your Majesty,” the girl says, bowing deeply to him. “They’re asking to begin again—to finalize preparations for the glorious treaty signing tomorrow.”

Regis imagines himself a daemon of sorts. The whole of Insomnia’s people are celebrating. They’re drinking and eating merrily, dancing and laughing, and celebrating a cessation of war that is nothing but a farce. They’re expecting the wall to come down, Noctis to marry Luna, and things to be better now than they have been in a millennia. 

Regis is letting them think these things, all the while knowing better. Even Regis’s council, the men and women that have his confidence, don’t truly know what tomorrow will bring. Maybe even Regis doesn’t know how bad it will be. Suspecting, and anticipating is enough. 

But if Noctis is going to have a chance, if the King of Kings is going to rise, Regis will play his part. 

He simply won’t give Clarus up any longer. 

“Back to work, then,” Regis says, letting his fingers linger on Clarus for just a moment more. Then he asks again, bravely, “Will you come to my chambers tonight?”

Brazenly, Clarus asks, “Is that an order, my king?”

“No.” Regis shakes his head a bit, reaching for his cane. He gets himself sturdy on his own feet. “It’s simply an offer, from a man named Regis, to one named Clarus.” 

Regis turns to go, with Clarus falling into step beside him. The child scurrying ahead is ignored as Clarus points out, “We haven’t simply been Clarus and Regis in some time.”

Regis decides, “Now is a fine time to start again.”

Clarus does come to call that night. He knocks sharply on Regis’s door hours after most of Insomnia has gone to sleep.

“You look surprised,” Clarus greets when Regis opens the door.

Regis is forced to confess, “I half expected you might not show.” 

“Impossible,” Clarus denies. “I would never keep you waiting, not with an open invitation.”

The door shuts behind Clarus, and there’s but a second of pause before Clarus’s hand is cupping Regis’s jaw, and they’re kissing.

They haven’t kissed since before the birth of Gladiolas, not since their last night in Altissia, not since they stood on a balcony overlooking the falls and held each other tightly.

And it feels now as if there is nothing more important in the world, than making up for lost time. 

Clarus presses Regis back against his bed, hands slipping under clothing, and for once Regis lets himself wonder if Clarus’s self control hasn’t been nearly as impeccable as perceived. Has this ferocity and this yearning been lurking beneath the surface for so many years?

“You consume me,” Clarus says.

Regis replies, “You are welcome to all that I am.”

They’re not young, spry men anymore. They’re not young at all. And since conceiving Noctis with Aulea, Regis has taken vows of celibacy. So part of him is afraid. He worries he’s lost the ability to be a competent lover.

Clarus is quick to remind him, with deft hands and a wet mouth, that one never really forgets such a thing. 

Still, age is most certainly still a factor. And Regis, his body isn’t nearly as strong as he would like it to be. Holding the wall has taken nearly everything out of him. Regis is not close to a fraction of what he used to be.

But he’s enough.

“Never,” Clarus breathes out into Regis’s hair, holding the king in his arms, feeling the slide of their sweat slick bodies press together, “doubt that you have my heart. You are my heart, Regis.”

Regis’s skin pulses with heat, and he feels Clarus’s heart beat beneath his ear. 

Against him, Clarus feels strong and mountainous, despite how the years and stress have eaten away at Clarus’s previously sturdy form. Clarus feels like a Shield should. And they’re in the position now that most Kings and Sheilds find themselves. 

A king must be everything to his people. These are the words Regis’s father said to him so long ago. And now Regis hears the second part of the statement, left out by his father and meant for Regis to discover himself.

A King is nothing without his Shield. 

Still a little breathless, and far from recovered and ready for a second round of lovemaking, Regis asks curiously, “When did such a thing occur? When did my insistent and frankly embarassing fascination with you, finally find reciprocation?”

Regis has never asked before, but now he wants to know. 

When did Clarus Amacitia fall in love with him?

Clarus gives him an odd look. Then he responds, “I remember the first time you kissed me. I remember exactly, to this day, what it felt like. Precisely.”

Regis pushes himself up a little, muscles complaining. “That’s the moment?” Considering the immediate protest that followed his actions, Regis has to doubt this. He was also very young, practically still a child, and certainly out of line. 

“That’s not the moment I knew I loved you,” Clarus laughs, his whole body shaking with it. His toes nudge into Regis’s. “That was the moment I knew it was in trouble, when I knew that I’d surely never be rid of you in my heart, but it’s not the moment I realized you had my heart.”

Regis waits with bated breath. 

“It was,” Clarus says almost dramatically, “the moment when I was very respectfully, absolutely innocently, strolling my way through the Citadel, and this heathen of a child, who was destined to grow up and be king, slid down a bannister and crashed into me. It was love at first sight, you understand.”

No, Regis does not. 

“You … that moment …”

Clarus cautions unnecessarily, “We were children. It was a chaste love. But it was love. I knew it for what it was in that instance. And the feeling, while evolving over time, has never faded.”

Regis grips Clarus tightly. “You are far better than I have ever deserved, Clarus.”

Clarus nudges them until they’re lying side by side on the bed, sheets kicked down to their thighs. Clarus kisses Regis’s brow and says, “I have had that exact thought nearly every day since that moment I knew I loved you, Regis. And if tomorrow it all comes to an end, I’m honored to have stood with you through it all.”

They make love again, even more slowly now than the first time, and Regis clings to the moment more viciously than he has ever before in his life. This moment, with Clarus in his arms and quiet peace around him, will never come again. This is his last indulgence, a dying, old man’s, and it feels like it might be stolen from him in any moment.

“Stop thinking,” Clarus shushes gently, his fingers tangled up in the pendant Regis still wears. “What comes tomorrow, comes. Let us have now.”

Easier said than done, Regis wants to choke out, but tears burn behind his eyes, and the air he’s breathing in feels dangerously thin.

And Clarus, as perceptive as ever, pushes the subject no more. Instead he says with a light chuckle, “I still can’t believe this thing survived all the years, all the battles, and all the drama.” He tugs a little on the pendant. “I can’t believe you still wear it.”

Regis’s fingers catch Clarus’s around the pendant. “I’d never dare take it off, Clarus. It’s good luck. And in this time more than ever, we could use good luck.”

Regis wonders if Clarus can feel the indentation in the pendant from so many decades long ago, where a bullet struck it and saved Regis’s life. Even if luck is a fable made up for children, and nothing tangible or real, Regis will never take the pendant off. He’ll die with it on.

“I wondered,” Clarus observes. “I looked for it ever so often. But I was unsure.”

“I wore it under my clothing only,” Regis says. He releases Clarus’s hand and follows the curve of the man’s shoulder and neck with his fingers. “I wanted to keep it private—special only to myself. It was your gift to me, Clarus, that did more than just save my life. I wanted to share it with no one else.”

Regis’s fingers ruck against the stubble on Clarus’s jaw. 

“Aulea …” Clarus tries delicately.

“I loved her very much,” Regis confesses, eyes closing at the feeling of Clarus’s weight shifting a bit more onto him. “But I have always been in love with you. She would have never asked me to take the pendant off, and I would never have taken it off, even for her.”

More than once however, at the beginning of their marriage when they had been trying to conceive, Regis had watched her eyes stray to it, the metal peeking out from under his pajamas in the privacy of their bedroom. 

He often wondered what she thought of it, and maybe he still does wonder to this day. Did she think them tragic and melancholy in their love? Or was there even a hint of envy? Regis can’t say. He only knows that years after her death, Regis felt strong enough to remove his wedding ring. But he has never so much as pondered the idea of removing his pendant. 

“I wanted to think you still wore it,” Clarus admits, a touch of possessiveness in his tone. “You’ve always been mine, Regis. Even when we couldn’t be like this, you’ve always been mine.”

Through the night Regis delights in these words, and they hold off the morning just long enough.

In the morning they rise. Clarus helps Regis dress, attendants dismissed, and fingers drift about as if they’re teenagers. All decorum, all propriety, and all care is tossed aside. They’re just Clarus and Regis for a few moments more, and it gives Regis strength for what comes next.

Death comes next.

When death comes for Regis, after Niflheim’s betrayal, and the sham of the marriage between Noctis and Luna is exposed, Clarus stands at his side. It’s not exactly unexpected, but it’s also heartbreaking in a way.

Regis has always known Clarus, like the other members of the king’s council, are slated for death. No one important to Insomina is expected to survive the initial onslaught. But all the same, Regis tries to give Clarus a chance. He tries to run the man off—to buy him at least a little more time.

Clarus scoffs at him and asks in an offended way, “And abandon my king?”

Clarus dies for him then, to protect him, to stand before him as Shield, and the honor of the Amicitia line is preserved.

The Kings of Lucis are not built to stand for long. Regis has known this since he was a child. Kings come and go, and frequently at that. Regis is yet another in a long line, and he’s done all he can. He’s kept his nation strong, raised and loved the King of Kings who is meant to bring peace to all of Eos, and Regis has never once lost sight of who he is. 

All in all, as death extends its icy grip towards him with finality, it is a life well lived. 

Regis can ask for no more. 

Except maybe Clarus waiting for him in the afterlife.

Because even in death, hope isn’t such a terrible thing to have.


End file.
